Renegade
by 1991Kira
Summary: They expected him to be a paragon of virtue, a champion of the Light, the personification of all that is good and noble in their world...they were wrong. Explore the legend of a darker Harry Potter, seen from the eyes of friend and foe alike. Multiple POVs. Non-linear narrative. Rated M for violence.
1. Reckoning

Dolores Umbridge strolled into the classroom, a wide smile across her toad-like face.

This was it. This was the class she'd been waiting for all day! This was her chance to finally confront the bane of her beloved Cornelius' existence – _Harry Potter_.

That lying, attention-seeking, no-good half-breed had caused no small amount of grief for the Ministry of Magic in the last few months. Him and that. . . that addled old muggle-loving fool of a headmaster.

Dolores scoffed in anger. Really, _You-Know-Who_ back from the dead? Upstanding members of wizarding society accused of being _Death Eaters_? Such nonsense! No doubt this was just one of Dumbledore's pathetic attempts at improving his own standing within the Ministry, now that Cornelius had started to become more independent and stopped relying on his so-called _advice_. Senile old fool simply couldn't stomach the fact that he wasn't needed anymore, and was stirring up trouble for the Ministry to boost his own ego!

As much as she wanted to strangle the muggle-loving bastard with his own beard sometimes, Dolores knew full well that taking on Albus Dumbledore head-on, politically or otherwise, was suicide. Even without his positions in the Wizengamot and the ICW, the man was a formidable opponent. The sheer amount of magical power he possessed, and his near-fanatical group of supporters, meant that taking down Dumbledore was not something that anyone could hope to accomplish easily.

Harry Potter on the other hand. . . .

Her eyes lit up with malicious glee at the sight of the young teenage wizard sitting at the back of the class.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, protégé of Albus Dumbledore, champion of the Light. . . _he_ was the chink in the old warlock's armor. Dolores had heard the rumors in the Ministry about how jealously Dumbledore guarded his connection to the prized teenager. He had gone out of his way on many occasions to accommodate the young wizard, and exercised every last bit of his influence to ensure that _no one_ , meaning absolutely _no-one_ within the Ministry could do anything to affect the boy in any way. She knew for a fact that Cornelius himself, on several occasions, had done his very best to ingratiate himself with the Boy-Who-Lived; but because of Dumbledore's constant meddling and the boy's own reticent nature, had not made much headway.

She sneered inwardly. Such a fool the boy was! Better wizards than him spent years currying favor just to shake the Minister's hand; he'd been offered everything a teenager like him to could've ever dreamed of. Heck, at that age Dolores herself would have killed to have a fraction of the attention the Boy-Who-Lived had received from the Minister.

Yet what had that foolish child done? He had spurned the Minister's advances, treated his kindness with contempt, spat on everything the Ministry stood for . . . all for the sake of more attention and publicity.

Dolores Umbridge could never forgive such insolence.

She sighed internally. For all his intelligence, Cornelius was a too nice a man sometimes; too soft to do what must be done. Had he been more like _her_ , he would have recognized the danger Harry Potter posed to the Ministry, and taken steps to correct it years ago. Instead, he had stood back and allowed the problem to fester, with the end result being all this chaos within their beloved society.

But no matter. That was why _she_ was here, after all!

In hindsight, the plan to assassinate Harry Potter using Dementors had not been one of her best moments. She had been completely unaware that the boy was capable of producing a Patronus (and a _corporeal_ one at that). She should have simply stuck with the original plan involving a couple of former hit-wizards on her payroll, who had enough experience with manipulating things to make it look like a muggle robbery gone wrong. Unfortunately, her vindictive side, which wanted to cause him as much suffering as possible, had decided on Dementors at the last second.

She had been livid when Potter had walked out of the courtroom that day, thanks to the silver tongue of that old wanker; far from getting rid of the problem at the source, circumstances had instead conspired _against_ her to turn the whole incident into an embarrassment for the Fudge administration. It had been fortuitous that the whole fiasco had not been covered by the press, or heads would have rolled.

This was why when one of the Minister's advisors had suggested getting an insider into Hogwarts through the vacant DADA position, Dolores had leapt at the opportunity. This was _her_ way of setting things right. Oh yes! She was going to use this chance to destroy Dumbledore's precious school from the inside out.

And she was going to start with his Golden Boy.

* * *

Pasting a sickly sweet smile on her face, Dolores stepped forward.

"Well, good afternoon!"

A few people mumbled "Good afternoon" in reply.

"Tut, tut," she said with a smirk. "That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.' One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!"

Silence.

Dolores glared at the students staring back at her blankly. She had expected them to obediently follow her instructions (not without some resistance of course, they were _Gryffindors_ after all), but this. . . . this silent defiance was something else altogether. She opened her mouth harshly, ready to dock the little brats a hundred points for their disobedience. . . .

. . . only to freeze when her eyes fell upon the root of her problems.

The Boy-Who-Lived stared at her silently, eyes boring into hers. His face was set in a neutral mask, but there was something else in his eyes. . . something Dolores had seen before.

She remembered where she'd seen that expression before. Back in the courtroom, back when they'd made eye-contact for the first time.

She had to admit the boy had taken her by surprise that day. She had fully expected to see a scared teenager walk into the chamber, frightened at the possibility of losing his wand, awed by the presence of the Wizengamot at his hearing, stammering lame excuses and tripping over his answers. . . .

It was why she had recommended the whole set-up to Cornelius in the first place.

But that was not what had happened. That boy. . . . no, that young _man_ (though she hated to admit it) had thrown them all off their game with his attitude. His confident posture, the way he sat in the chair of the accused, as if it were a throne, surveying them with his bright green eyes as if _they_ were the ones on trial. . . .

For the briefest of moments, she had met his eyes back then. Staring into those emerald orbs brought out an emotion she hadn't felt in a long time. . . _fear_.

It reminded her of some of the more sinister rumors she had heard in the Ministry about the Boy-Who-Lived. There had been rumors about his magical prowess, of a power and skill greater than any other student in the castle; she had also heard rumors about the existence of a cult of sorts in Hogwarts, growing in numbers by the years, who followed Potter with a fanaticism the likes of which the school had not seen since the days of He-who-must-not-be-named.

She had dismissed it back then as mindless drivel. The boy was a Gryffindor through and through, and those kind of rumors attributed to an extremely efficient Slytherin. It was inconceivable that Dumbledore's Golden Boy could ever hope to accomplish something of _that_ magnitude, or so she'd thought anyways.

Staring into those green orbs now, she suddenly didn't feel so sure.

"Yes. . . . well," she cleared her throat, hoping to regain some semblance of control over the situation. "Wands away and quills out, please."

To her relief, the class silently complied with her order. She fumbled with her handbag and drew her own wand, feeling reassured by its weight in her hand. She sharply rapped the blackboard and the words _'Defense Against the Dark Arts - A Return to Basic Principles'_ appeared, followed by her course aims.

She stood back and watched as the students silently copied down everything. When they were finished, she said, "Good. "I should like you to turn to page five and read chapter one, 'Basics for Beginners.' There will be no need to talk."

Once again, the students complied. Dolores breathed a silent sigh of relief. Finally, she seemed to be in control once again.

This relief was short-lived, however, as a single hand shot into the air.

"Yes, Miss. . . ?"

"Hermione Granger, Professor. I've got a query about your course aims."

Ah, yes. . . . Hermione Granger. Dolores had heard that name before. She was a Mudblood and one of Potter's closest friends. This was going to be fun.

"Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully," she said in a voice of determined sweetness.

"Well, I don't," said Hermione bluntly. "There's nothing written up there about _using_ defensive spells."

Oh this was going to be fun indeed.

" _Using_ defensive spells?" she repeated with a little laugh. "Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren't expecting to be attacked during class?"

"So, we're not going to use magic?"

"No, my dear, I suppose not."

She waited with bated breath for the Mudblood to speak next. Being the head-strong Gryffindor she was, no doubt this condescending remark would provoke a colorful reaction from her, giving her the perfect excuse to put her in detention. Dolores had a Blood Quill just itching to be used.

After all, what better way to break Dumbledore's Golden Boy than through his _friends_ , she thought with a sneer.

To her disappointment however, the Mudblood didn't take the bait. "Professor, isn't there a practical bit in our Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.? Aren't we supposed to show that we can actually _perform_ the counter-curses and things?"

"As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions," she said dismissively.

She waited again, hoping against hope that _someone_ in the class would speak up against this, and give her an excuse to make an example out of them.

To her surprise however, the Mudblood simply paused a few moments before turning around to speak to Potter directly. "Harry, I think it'll be better if we used this period to do a little bit of self-studying in the dorms instead of wasting our time here."

Dolores' eyes bulged in shock at the blatant way the Mudblood had disregarded her presence. She was about to rail into the sorry excuse of a witch when Potter spoke.

"I agree, Hermione."

His voice was soft, but had a firmness in it that carried across the silent room.

A brief pause, and the lanky red-head beside him got to his feet and started packing his bag. "Well, you heard the man."

To Dolores' horror, the entire class stood up as one and began to pack their bags, preparing to leave the class.

"Now look here. . . ." she sputtered in outrage. "Where do you all think you're going? I have not dismissed any of you. . . ."

But her protests fell on deaf ears as the entire class stood up and began to file of the room.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor!" she screamed at the departing students. "Do not ignore me! Seventy-five. . . . _one hundred_ points from Gryffindor. . . ."

Her protests fell on deaf ears, however, as all the students quietly began to file out of the classroom. Dolores merely stood there, screaming like a child throwing a temper tantrum, as the fifth-years walked out without a care in the world.

"Detention!" she shrieked, as the doors opened and the students began to spill out of the room. "A week's worth of detention to all of you! How dare you ignore me! Come back here this instant. . . ."

In a matter of moments, the classroom was empty except for Potter and his two lackeys, the Longbottom boy and Dolores herself.

The new Professor seethed in fury as she turned to regard the bane of her existence, who was standing in the middle of the classroom, still regarding her with that unblinking stare of his. She took an unconscious step backwards, her mouth moving furiously but unable to make any actual noise.

The Mudblood Granger, meanwhile had finished packing her bag and turned to speak to the red-head ( _was he a Weasley?_ ). "Make sure he doesn't go too far this time, alright Ron?"

Dolores eyes nearly fell out of her head at these words. Worse still, the red-head merely rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, mum."

The Mudblood shot him a mock-glare before leaning forward to kiss him affectionately on the cheek (Dolores's jaw dropped). She then proceeded to walk out the class, shooting the Longbottom boy a brief smile on the way. The door swung shut behind her, leaving the four of them alone.

Dolores couldn't stand it anymore. Her outrage overriding her sense of self-preservation, she stormed over to Potter (who stood with his hands folded behind his back) and jabbed her finger into his chest.

"How _dare_ you!" she bellowed in anger. "How dare you disrupt this class, Potter? How dare you disrupt _my_ class? I shall see you expelled for this!"

In her anger, she did not notice the other two boys in the room moving to cover the only two exits. She also did not notice them lock the doors with a number of advanced locking charms, before putting up a few wards around the room.

"You're _finished,_ Potter. . . do you hear me?" she continued to jab him in the chest as she ranted. "Your precious Dumbledore won't be able to save you _this_ time! You _will_ be expelled! I'll personally snap your wand and throw you out of the castle, you filthy half-breed!"

"I am the Senior Undersecretary to the Minster for Magic! I am in charge here! I. . . ."

She was cut off as a strong hand landed on her right shoulder, startling her into silence.

"Do you _feel_ in charge, Madam Umbridge?"

She gaped in astonishment as she looked up into the face of the Boy-Who-Lived. He was by no means taller or stronger than the average fifteen year old; yet as she looked up into his face, she felt a paralyzing fear overtake all of her senses. The air seemed to grow thicker around her, and she began to feel a slight difficulty in breathing.

It took her a minute to realize she wasn't imagining any of it.

The air around her _was_ getting denser by the minute, causing her breath to hitch in her throat. Magic seemed to roll off the young wizard before her in waves, saturating their surroundings with pure energy. His bright emerald orbs glowed with barely restrained power as the sheer pressure of his presence crushed the very air out of her lungs, her body unable to move an inch.

"Wh-who _are_ you?" she finally croaked out, her very soul trembling with fear.

"Who me?" Potter said softly, his hand on her shoulder moving to form a gentle yet firm grip on her neck. "I'm Wizarding England's _reckoning_ , Madam Umbridge."

She gurgled in horrified surprise as he effortlessly lifted her into the air with one hand. For a few moments she merely hung there as he stared into her eyes, his head cocked to one side as if contemplating something. Then without warning, she flew across the room to collide against the wall with a sickening crunch.

She rolled on the floor grunting in pain, dimly aware of slow methodical footsteps coming closer. Her eyes fell on the blurred shape of something familiar lying beside her.

 _My wand!_

Slowly, she picked up her wand, a short and stubby piece of wood, and pointed it unsteadily at the figure approaching her. Her head was still throbbing with pain and a small trickle of blood ran down over her eyes. She said the first spell that popped into her mind, " _Crucio!_ "

Her wand burst into flames.

Shrieking in pain and horror, Dolores dropped her wand, watching it turn into ash as it hit the ground. Cradling her injured hand to her chest, Dolores scampered away from Potter until she hit the wall.

"Tut, tut, Madam Umbridge," he spoke disapprovingly, as if to a poorly performing pupil. "That's not the way to perform that spell." He slowly drew his own wand. "Shall I give you a lesson?"

Panic-stricken, she looked around to see both the Weasley and Longbottom boy standing guard next to the exits. Both were determinedly not looking at her, their expressions betraying none of their thoughts.

"Y-y-y-you. . . c-c-can't. . . P-P-Potter. . . p-please," she whimpered, tears streaking down her cheeks.

"Oh, but I _can_ ," he said softly, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips. His wand bore down on her trembling figure.

"P-Please. . . H-H-Harry. . . don't," she begged.

" _Crucio._ "

Dolores screamed in pain as a thousand molten knives seemed to dig into her body. Pain unlike anything she'd ever felt coursed through her; she wanted to black out, to die. . . . anything to stop the horrific pain searing through her. Dolores Umbridge drew her legs into her chest and screamed in agony, her voice reverberating throughout the classroom.

 _Please let someone come! Dumbledore, McGonagall. . . anyone, please!_

Mercifully, her world went dark.

* * *

"Finally awake, Professor Umbridge?"

Dolores blearily opened her eyes to look into the concerned face of Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts medi-witch.

"Wh-what. . . ?" she asked weakly, unable to fully comprehend what she was seeing.

"Easy," the nurse said soothingly. "You're in the Hospital Wing."

Her eyes fully snapped open in surprise. There were a thousand questions rushing through her mind. How was she still alive? Where was Potter? How did she get to the hospital wing?

"The Fifth-year Gryffindors brought you in. They said that you'd suddenly fainted in the middle of the class."

Dolores nearly laughed out loud. _Fainted_? Is that the story Potter had given the school nurse? She had been subjected to the Cruciatus curse, for Merlin's sake! How could this blind woman believe she'd simply _fainted_?

Wait a minute. _The Cruciatus curse. . . .  
_

Dolores quickly ran her hands over her body, as if to check if all of her limbs were still attached. Her heart was beating wildly inside her chest. _This isn't possible. . . .  
_

It was gone. The pain was _gone_!

She knew enough about the Cruciatus curse to know that the pain from such a Dark curse simply did not disappear in a few hours. The spell was considered an Unforgivable for a reason. Long term damage was pretty common for those who'd been kept under the curse for more than a minute. Even minor exposure to the spell left a great deal of pain and aches over the body.

But Dolores felt nothing. No aches, no pains. . . it was like she had never been placed under the curse in the first place.

And her hand. . . she stared at her hand in astonishment. Her previously injured hand was completely healed as well. For all intents and purposes it was like she had never been attacked in the first place.

She glanced at the school nurse suspiciously. Could it be that she was in league with Potter, and had healed her injuries in advance to ensure that Dolores wouldn't press charges against him? Her blood ran cold at the implication.

She had to get out of here. It was all a mistake. . . this accursed castle, this Merlin-damned school! She had to get away from all this, from Potter, from Dumbledore. . . .

"Where do you think you're going?" the medi-witch snapped, her hands on her hips.

"Have to go to the Ministry. . . lots of work. . . important business. . . no time," Dolores babbled incoherently as she jumped out of bed and began to get dressed.

Pomfrey seemed torn between concern for her patient and relief at evicting this odious individual from her domain. She settled on the former. "Professor, you are severely dehydrated, and you seem to have suffered a slight concussion when you hit the floor. I must insist. . . ."

"I assure you, my dear, I feel fine," Dolores plastered on her best fake smile, though it had the unintended effect of making her look slightly constipated.

"Very well," Pomfrey sighed. "Please remember to collect your things on the way out." She walked away, silently relieved to be rid of the obnoxious witch so soon.

Dolores started to move towards the Floo before she cursed and doubled back to the bedside drawer, where her possessions were laid out neatly.

The sight that greeted her nearly made her pass out of sheer terror.

Lying innocently on the table was a very _familiar_ piece of short and stubby wood. Beneath it lay a small piece of parchment, with a message written in neat, clear script.

 _Take care, Madam Umbridge._

* * *

 **AN: So it begins. . . .  
**

 **The basic premise of the story is that Harry is truly the Dark Lord's equal: powerful, intelligent, charismatic, has his own group of devoted followers. . . the major difference being that he frequently skirts the line between Light and Dark.**

 **Reviews would be very much appreciated.  
**


	2. Confidence

**_November 1991_**

Neville Longbottom limped back to the dorms from the Hospital Wing.

This was his third visit to the place in the last month; and while Neville would be the first person to tell you that he was incredibly accident-prone, even _he_ had to admit this was getting rather ridiculous.

He sighed. Sometimes, he wondered if coming to Hogwarts was worth all the trouble.

A year ago, getting his Hogwarts letter had been his biggest concern. The Longbottoms had attended this prestigious school for the last three centuries (as his Gran reminded him every single day). For someone from his family to _not_ go to Hogwarts was practically unheard of; and for someone from his family to not be offered a Hogwarts admission in the first place. . . .

He shuddered. He really didn't want to think about it.

Truth be told, the day Neville received his letter had marked a special moment in his life. Until then, every single member of his family (including Neville himself) had been convinced that he was a squib. Despite the rather memorable bout of accidental magic he'd displayed barely a few months prior to that day, everyone in his family had secretly feared (some more than others) that he simply might not have what it took to rate an acceptance letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Strangely enough, Neville himself hadn't been too bothered at the prospect of being a squib. If he had to be perfectly honest, he really didn't have much of an interest in the more flashy branches of magic such as Transfiguration or Charms. His interest lay in fields which involved less of wand-waving and more of academic research, like Herbology. The smell of fresh earth, the warmth in the presence of plants. . . _these_ were the things that he enjoyed most of all. As far as he was concerned, any day spent in a greenhouse carefully studying one of nature's greatest gifts was a day well spent.

Too bad his Gran didn't agree with him.

He scowled in irritation. If Neville had to sum up all that wrong with his life in one word, it would undoubtedly be " _Gran_ ".

Augusta Longbottom, the matriarch of the family, was an extremely formidable and domineering woman. Someone who was accustomed to never taking no for an answer, she ran roughshod over his life. From the clothes he wore to the company he kept, from the subjects he studied to what he did in his free time. . . his Gran wanted to have a say in _everything_.

Even here, at Hogwarts, Neville was truly not free from her influence. Her status as a member of the school Board of Governors meant that she had plenty of ways of keep an eye on him even within the confines of the castle.

His fists clenched in anger as he remembered the last letter she'd sent him. Apparently, someone had informed his esteemed Gran that he'd been spending too much time in the greenhouses with Professor Sprout. She had owled him immediately, ordering him to "cease this childishness at once and focus on _real_ subjects like Transfiguration, Potions and DADA."

He punched the nearby wall in anger. Did she have _any_ idea what she was talking about? Transfiguration was one of the most difficult branches of magic there was, heck even someone like Hermione Granger tended to have a little bit of trouble with the subject; Snape was one of the worst teachers in the school, even if he didn't have a personal vendetta against every single Gryffindor; and DADA was a joke. . . which was probably the most polite thing one could say about their sorry excuse of a professor.

Neville had spent his entire life trying to live up to his Gran's expectations. He had always put his own interests, his own apprehensions aside to strive to meet _her_ standards. He slogged countless hours a day working on what _she_ considered important, he worked hard to improve his grades to what _she_ considered as adequate; he had even begged the Sorting Hat to place him in Gryffindor over its insistence that he'd do well in Hufflepuff. . . simply because he didn't want his Gran to feel disappointed.

But still, it wasn't enough. It was _never_ enough!

He knew he was being too harsh on her. He knew, that part of the reason that she acted the way she did was because she had never truly gotten over what had happened to his parents. She missed his father dearly, and thus was doing her best to ensure that their legacy lived on through him.

Unfortunately for her, he was _not_ his father; and he doubted he ever _would_ be.

Neville sighed again. Sometimes he wondered, _really_ wondered, what his life would have been like if he had never gotten that Merlin-be-damned letter; if he really _had_ been a squib.

"Hey, Neville. Everything okay?"

He started in surprise and whipped around.

"Harry, what're you doing here?"

"I was on my way to check up on you," said the Boy-Who-Lived as he walked closer to him. "You alright?" his bright green eyes were tinged with genuine worry.

Neville felt a smile light up his face. Harry Potter was one of the few people who made his life in this old castle worth living.

A few months ago, if anybody had told him that he'd end up being friends with the Boy-Who-Lived himself, Neville would've told them to get their heads examined.

Yet, here he was.

If he had to be honest with himself, however, Neville was surprised that someone like Harry would even bother to be friends with someone like him.

Harry Potter was everything the rumors had made him out to be, and then some. One of the brightest students in the school, and definitely _the_ most powerful magically, the boy was everything Neville had dreamed of being. Youngest quidditch player in a century, and the only person Neville knew to have taken on a fully grown mountain troll and come out on top. . . the bloke was simple amazing.

And yet, despite everything he'd accomplished since he'd set foot in the castle, Harry was a paragon of modesty. He never lorded his superiority over others (unlike Malfoy), never used his fame to wheedle concessions from teachers or his peers. . . heck, he even found the time to help those around him with their work, including Neville himself.

It was why Harry was one of the few people in the school he genuinely looked up to.

"I'm fine, mate," Neville said, trying to stand straighter. "Really!" he insisted at the other boy's disbelieving look. "Madam Pomfrey patched me up in two seconds."

"If you're sure," Harry said, still looking at him closely. "C'mon, let's get going. Dinner's in a couple of hours."

They walked back together to Gryffindor tower in silence. "That was one hell of an explosion back there, mate," Harry spoke casually. "What went wrong?"

Neville grimaced, recalling the incident in question that led him to the Hospital Wing in the first place. They'd been attempting a particularly complex piece of Transfiguration in class, and just as he'd uttered the last syllable of the incantation, an explosion had sent him flying into the wall.

"I probably just messed up the incantation or something. . . ." he mumbled sheepishly.

"Nah, you didn't," Harry said. "I was right behind you remember. You got both the incantation _and_ the wand movements right."

"Well then, I dunno. . . ."

They moved forward in silence again, until Harry spoke. "Say, can I take a look at your wand?"

"Why?" Neville asked suspiciously.

"Just got a hunch," his hand was outstretched expectantly.

"Well. . . . okay, then. Here."

Harry took the wand and examined it closely. "Gotta say, it looks rather worn out. Been using it long?"

Neville merely cursed under his breath. The bloke was just _too_ sharp sometimes.

"Didn't catch that, Neville. Sorry."

 _Persistent bugger!_ "It's my Dad's wand. . . ." He muttered.

Harry was silent for a moment. "Your father's Frank Longbottom, right?"

"Yeah." It was a touchy subject for him.

"I'm sorry," Harry squeezed his shoulder gently.

"S'okay." Somehow, having Harry mention his father didn't feel as bad as he thought it'd be.

They continued walking in silence for a while, before Harry spoke again. "Why're you using his old wand again? It doesn't seem like it's a good fit for you."

"My Gran wants me to. . . ." Neville muttered, not wanting to say anything more.

Harry wisely chose to remain silent.

* * *

Neville blinked as he stood outside Ollivanders.

In all honesty, he had no idea how he'd ended up here with Harry Potter and Professor McGonagall of all people.

It all started with the next day's Transfiguration class. Having finished his work early (as usual), Harry had engaged the Professor in a conversation on wands in general. Somehow, he'd hinted to her that not everything was right with Neville's wand, and before he knew it McGonagall was already making plans to visit Diagon Alley to get him a new wand. She also mentioned that she'd have a few choice words for Augusta Longbottom the next time they met at the Board of Governors meeting.

But what floored Neville the most was how Harry had managed to talk the stern professor into letting him accompany them. The Boy-Who-Lived had simply pouted a little and made a few off-hand comments about his relatives never taking him anywhere nice, and McGonagall had relented.

Neville grinned. The bloke really knew how to push the right buttons.

All in all, it was a great day, as Neville managed to get a new wand, and their Head of House chose to drop her stern façade for a bit and humored both the boys with stories of their parents' adventures at the school.

* * *

The little shopping trip had done wonders for Neville's mood. Between the time he spent with his new friends and the fact that he was actually _improving_ his performance in Transfiguration and Charms thanks to his new wand (Cherry and Unicorn hair), life at Hogwarts never seemed better.

Naturally, it was barely a week later when things went to hell again.

Neville limped out of the Hospital Wing, his ears burning red with shame and anger.

Malfoy and his goons had accosted him on the way from the Library. One thing led to another and before he knew it, he was getting the shite kicked out of him before some of the prefects had intervened.

An entire corridor full of people had sworn that Malfoy had started it, but Snape being his usual self had deducted points from Gryffindor and chased him away, saying he was lucky he hadn't gotten a detention instead.

Neville growled in impotent rage. It was so bloody unfair! Why the heck did Snape always single him out like that? Why did. . . .

"Alright, Neville?" Once again Harry Potter strode over to meet him.

He grinned weakly at his friend. "Yeah mate, I'm fine."

Harry simply nodded. "Great. Let's go for a bit of a walk, shall we?"

"Yeah," Neville said gratefully. Anything to get out of the castle for a bit.

They walked all the way to the lake, discussing quidditch and homework and other random stuff.

As they settled down on a rock overlooking the water, Harry spoke.

"Say, Neville. Why d'you suppose Malfoy keeps picking on you all the time?"

"Dunno," Neville said, skimming a stone across the lake surface.

"There must be _some_ reason. I mean, the guy's practically obsessed with you. First the Remembrall, now this. . . ."

He's got a point, Neville thought. "Maybe it's because my Gran and his Dad are both on the school's Board of Governors. I hear they're always butting heads."

"Hmmm. . . ." Harry seemed thoughtful.

"Or maybe it's because I'm so weak. . . ."

Neville wanted to smack himself the moment the words left his mouth. To his surprise however, the Boy-Who-Lived merely chuckled.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. . . ."

Neville looked at his friend in surprise.

"Yeah. Believe me, I know a few things about being bullied."

"You? Bullied?" Neville was shocked. He couldn't imagine someone like Harry ever having to face bullies. The bloke was just so. . . _strong_.

Harry was silent for a moment. "When I was younger, my cousin and his buddies often picked on me for the heck of it."

"You live with muggles, right?" Neville was hesitant to ask.

"That's right," he said nonchalantly. "They're not big fans of magic, let me tell you."

He paused. Neville couldn't help but glance around nervously. The conversation was steering into a rather uncomfortable territory.

"There were about five of them, including my cousin. They spent all their free time during and after school chasing me around. Made a game out of it as well. They called it 'Harry Hunting'". There was the barest hint of steel in his voice.

Neville was horrified. The Boy-Who-Lived was bullied by _muggles_? He'd beaten a troll, for Merlin's sake!

"Of course," if Harry noticed his shocked expression, he didn't react. He was still staring out over the lake. "One fine day, I realized I'd had enough and decided to confront the wankers."

"You beat them up, right?" Neville asked hopefully. That sounded a lot more like the Harry he knew.

His friend merely laughed. "' _Beat them up_?' Mate, there were five of them. Not to mention they were all double my size. No way was I going to win _that_ fight."

Neville was confused. "But then. . ."

"Why did I do it?" he prompted. "Why'd I pick a fight I knew I couldn't win?"

Neville merely nodded.

"Because sometimes, it's not about winning or losing. Sometimes, it's all about taking a stand." He looked thoughtfully at the ripples in the water. "I knew I had to stop running sooner or later, or I'd probably spend the whole of my life running away. I may not have won any of the fights, but I showed them that I wasn't going to lie down and let them walk all over me. If they wanted a piece of me, they'd have to _work_ for it."

For a few minutes the two boys just stood over there, watching the giant squid drift lazily over the lake.

"Harry?"

"Hmm...?"

"Any tips you'd like to share?"

He looked thoughtful for a second. "If you're going up against a gang, try to split them up and take them one by one. If that doesn't work, make sure to always focus on the leader first. Some cases you succeed in taking down the boss fast enough, the rest of them will just scatter. Worst case scenario: you go down, at least you'll take the head wanker with you."

Neville merely grinned.

* * *

Neville Longbottom was in a great mood today.

Sure he was lying in the Hospital Wing with his face looking like a mashed potato, his left leg broken, several cracked ribs and quite a few teeth missing, but he was still happy.

After all, it wasn't like Draco Malfoy, lying across the hall from him was looking any better.

Currently his Gran and Lucius Malfoy were having an epic row in the middle of the hall, flanked on both sides by McGonagall and Snape.

After a shouting match that lasted half-an-hour, the heads of both the families had been separated at wand point by an extremely irate Madam Pomfrey (who knew the mediwitch could be so terrifying). In the end, the heads of both Houses had agreed (rather reluctantly) that since both Neville and Draco were equally culpable, they would both be suspended for three days, along with equal loss of House points and a week's worth of detentions.

As his Gran stormed up to his bed and proceeded to berate him for his behavior, Neville noticed there was something. . . off about the way she spoke. He'd been on the receiving end of her ire enough times to know what she sounded like when she was truly angry. This time though, her admonishment seemed almost half-hearted.

Then he caught sight of an incredibly beat-up looking Draco Malfoy limping away with his parents' assistance. He noticed his Gran cough into her hand softly; behind her McGonagall was determinedly looking away, the corners of her mouth twitching.

Neville stared at the two ladies in surprise.

 _Bloody hell! They're actually enjoying themselves!_

* * *

As Neville limped out of the Great Hall beside his grandmother, he could see a lot of the students staring at him.

Whispers and pointed glances followed him as he walked. Some were griping about the number of points he'd cost his house, some were muttering about how he was secretly a psycho, some were admiring the way he'd taken down Draco Malfoy, some were wondering if this meant he was going to start bossing everyone around like Draco had. . .

He found he didn't actually care that much.

His eyes fell on his friends sitting at the Gryffindor table.

Ron was grinning from ear to ear, shooting him a thumbs up; Hermione looked torn between anger at his recklessness and relief over his recovery; and Harry. . .

. . . the Boy-Who-Lived merely smiled at him, shooting him a friendly wink over his goblet of juice.

Suddenly, a hand touched his shoulder. He looked around in surprise to see his Gran with her arm around him.

Her face was set, her eyes stared straight ahead. . . but there was something in them that Neville had rarely seen before; something he had only seen on the day he'd gotten his Hogwarts letter.

Pride.

His Gran was proud of him.

Neville Longbottom walked out of the castle with his head held high.

* * *

 **AN: I figured people'd like to know how Harry won Neville's loyalty.**

 **I'm going to be jumping around between years quite a bit, so lemme know if it becomes too confusing to follow.**

 **Fair warning, this isn't going to be one of those fics where Harry becomes Lord Potter and goes around bringing righteous justice down upon his enemies with his perfect teenage girlfriend. At the same time, this isn't going to be a broody, emo "Dark Lord Harry" fic where he becomes uber powerful after reading from a forbidden book.**

 **I'm trying to achieve a middle ground of sorts, while maintaining realism along the way. Sure some moments will require a little suspension of disbelief, but if you can stick around you will enjoy the story.**


	3. Insignificant

Severus Snape was in a good mood today.

Sure, his leg was still giving him trouble (courtesy of Hagrid's three-headed monstrosity), and he ended up having to skip breakfast to avoid being late to his morning classes; but the afternoon classes with the first-year Gryffindors _more_ than made up for all the unpleasantness he'd been forced to deal with.

Severus smirked. As far as _he_ was concerned, any day spent knocking down James Potter's spawn a peg or two was a good day.

The boy had barely set foot in the castle a scant few months ago, and already he had everyone (students and teachers alike) eating out of the palm of his hand. The entire school was raving about the so-called magical prowess of the Brat-Who-Lived. McGonagall of course, was at the head of the crowd, telling everybody she met about how Potter's spawn was a Transfiguration prodigy just like his arrogant father. She'd even used (or _abused_. . . . in his opinion) her position as Deputy Headmistress to bend the 'No First years' rule and gotten the pathetic child a position on the Gryffindor quidditch team. Even Flitwick, to Snape's surprise, wouldn't stop gushing about the brat and his skills with Charms; and don't even get him started on Dumbledore and his damned twinkle.

To top it all off, the incredibly fortunate brat had somehow managed to take down a fully grown mountain troll while _presumably_ trying to save the obnoxious Granger chit (no doubt the foolish beast had simply knocked itself out with its own club). Rather than berate him for his recklessness however, the entire school was exalting him to the high heavens. Saint Potter, putting his life on the line for a lowly Mudblood with no friends. It was a wonder they hadn't built a statue in his honor and started worshiping him by now!

Now the boy was strutting around the school as if he owned the place. The Weasley boy, the idiot Longbottom and that Granger girl constantly followed him around like obedient dogs. The similarities between him and his arrogant father were so profound that sometimes he felt sick to his stomach.

Naturally, Severus had taken it upon himself to introduce the pampered little Prince of Gryffindor to the harsh reality of the Wizarding world.

When Malfoy had sabotaged Longbottom's cauldron again in today's class, Severus had purposefully turned a blind eye. He had taken a vindictive pleasure in docking Gryffindor several points for Longbottom's clumsiness (that boy should _never_ have been allowed to set foot in this school) and the Weasley boy's outburst over the perceived injustice of the situation. Then he had topped it all off by insulting Potter once again, going out of his way to point out how James Potter had been a similarly incompetent brewer who had once destroyed an entire lab during one of his classes.

The boy had surprised him at that point. Instead of the violent reaction Severus had expected, the brat had simply stared at him with the same neutral expression he always wore in the dungeons.

Severus had to admit, however grudgingly, that the brat had actually _impressed_ him back then. He'd shown a level of self-restraint that James Potter would _never_ have been capable of. He _had_ , however, made the mistake of looking directly at Severus when submitting his potion at the end of the day.

Seeing those beautiful green eyes up close on the face of his old schoolyard adversary had struck a nerve within him; and for the first time in a long time he'd lost control and done something he'd sworn _never_ to do.

He'd insulted Lily before her son.

Severus had cringed internally the moment the words left his lips, but he couldn't suppress the small burst of happiness he felt when the boy's mask dropped and his emerald eyes flashed in anger. He savored the pleasure of being able to get under the skin of the usually unflappable Brat-Who-Lived.

He grimaced in distaste. _If only it didn't come at such a high price. . . ._

He sighed as he made his way back to his quarters in the dungeons. After a day like this, he wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed with a hot water bottle for his leg.

As he rounded a corner, he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head and his world went black.

* * *

When Severus finally came to, it took him a few minutes to realize just how bad his current situation was.

He was stripped down to his boxers, his hands tied behind his head; he'd been blindfolded and his mouth was gagged. To make matters worse, he seemed to be locked in an unused bathroom of sorts (if the smell was anything to go by).

His first reaction was that he had fallen victim to an unsavory prank by the Gryffindor twins. He was already thinking about how best to go about convincing Albus to get those demons expelled when he felt something cool run down his bandaged leg.

Then his world exploded into pain.

Something that felt like a strong metal rod struck his injured leg with enough force to crack the bones underneath. Severus screamed in pain, but the gag in his mouth muffled most of the sound.

That was when the Hogwarts Potions Master realized he was a dead man.

Again and again the rod struck, and Severus shrieked in misery as he felt his femur break cleanly in half. He struggled valiantly against his bonds, trying hard not to black out as his unknown assailant went to work on the lower half of his leg, shattering the fibula and the tibia with little effort.

Twenty minutes later, every single bone in Severus' right leg had been pulverized. The sheer pain had caused the distraught Potions Master to void his bowels, and the air was filled with the nauseating smell of his wastes.

His attacker didn't seem to be fazed in the least, however, as he went to work on Severus' other leg. The Potions Master struggled to stay awake against the vicious onslaught on his limb, feeling every single bone crumble against the relentless blows.

As a former Death Eater, Severus Snape was no stranger to pain. He had been on the receiving end of the Cruciatus curse on more than one occasion. But his current situation was beyond even _his_ capacity to bear.

Every single blow that landed on his leg was calculated. It amazed him how unhurried his attacker was, as he went about landing vicious blows on his person with a precision that boasted of experience. Worse still, his assailant was careful to not make a single noise or gesture that gave away his identity.

But even delirious with pain, a part of Severus' mind was capable of enough rational thought to narrow down his suspicions to one person in the castle.

 _Quirrell. . . .  
_

That was his last coherent thought as he passed out in sheer agony.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore strode into the Hospital Wing, his traveling cloak still on his person.

He had arrived from the Ministry to find a distraught Minerva McGonagall waiting for him in the Entrance Hall. She had barely finished speaking when he started moving up the stairs, intending to check on the health of his Potions Master.

"Poppy, how is Severus doing?"

To his slight surprise, the mediwitch merely jerked her head towards her office. Dumbledore followed her in and cast a strong privacy ward around them both.

"Severus is in an _extremely_ bad situation, Albus! The bones in both of his legs have been fractured in multiple places. He also lost quite a bit of blood, seeing as one of his legs was still healing after that run in with that beast of Hagrid's. I'm afraid it'll be several _days_ before I can discharge him from here."

Dumbledore digested all this information. Briefly, he debated about moving him to St Mungo's before quickly dismissing that thought. He had faith in Poppy Pomfrey's skills as a Healer, and he wanted to avoid drawing any more unnecessary attention.

Not to mention there were more pressing concerns to deal with. . . .

"Minerva said that Severus had been _attacked_?"

Poppy nodded. "One of the prefects found him in an unused bathroom in the dungeons. It was. . . . Albus, it was _horrible_." She swallowed. "He was stripped naked, his hands were bound behind his head and he was blindfolded and gagged. His legs were absolutely. . . . _mangled;_ and that's not even the worst part."

She gestured to a corner of her office. Lying there was a long partially-rusted metal pipe, splotches of red blood all over it.

Dumbledore felt like he was going to be sick.

"We found this lying beside him. While Minerva and I brought him here, Filius investigated the area." Poppy swallowed again. "Albus, there was no magical signature in that place whatsoever. Whoever did this didn't use any magic _at all_." She looked at him meaningfully.

Dumbledore understood what she was getting at. Like him, Poppy was veteran of the First War against Voldemort. What she had described was a method of attack favored by low-level enforcers hired by the Death Eaters. In order to avoid detection by the Aurors they had often employed such crude measures, largely for the purpose of intimidating their targets. It was mostly successful since most wizards lacked the physical training to deal with such unorthodox tactics.

To think that something like this happened in his school. . . .

"Albus? Albus!" Poppy startled him out of his reverie. "We have to do something. The culprit is still out there, roaming the school! We _have_ to notify the DMLE!"

"I agree, my dear. I shall floo them myself." He glanced out of the office at the sole occupied bed in the infirmary. He could make out the broken form of his Potions Master, hidden behind the drapes. "Will Severus make a full recovery?"

She sighed. "It's too early to say. The damage to his legs was. . . extensive. I'm afraid mending the bones with magic is out of the question. I'm going to have to vanish them and regrow them using Skele-Gro." Dumbledore winced in sympathy. He remembered too well the discomfort of re-growing bones from scratch.

"It'll take three days for all the bones in both his legs to be completely regrown. Then he'll need a few days of therapy to ensure his legs are still working correctly, or if he'll require additional treatment."

"Do your best, my dear. I shall be on my way. I have quite a few calls to make." Dumbledore walked out of the office and approached Severus' unconscious form slowly.

In hindsight it was pretty clear as to who the culprit was. He'd known the moment he'd understood that the attack had occurred while he was away from the castle.

Only one person in the school was ruthless enough to carry out such a cold, pre-mediated act of violence against another.

Dumbledore's suspicions had been correct: Lord Voldemort was within the school.

No doubt he had found a way around the wards with help of Quirinus Quirell. Dumbledore had long since suspected the DADA teacher to be in league with the monster. He also had some suspicions as to what _exactly_ lurked beneath the stuttering Wizard's turban.

Perhaps it was time to find out.

A cold anger filled the old headmaster's chest at the sight of his injured friend.

Once again that monster had desecrated the sacred halls of his school! Once again an innocent's life had been put in jeopardy because of his carelessness! The incident with Ms Granger and the troll had been bad enough, but this. . . . this was going too far.

Voldemort had _finally_ gone too far.

Dumbledore bade Poppy goodnight and strode purposefully to the quarters of his DADA professor. If it was a fight Voldemort wanted, then by Merlin he was going to get one!

* * *

Severus Snape awoke with a start.

For a moment he wondered if it was the pain in his legs which had prompted his return to consciousness. His mouth was still tinged with the foul taste of the Skele-Gro potion. He looked around blearily for a jug of water.

"How're you doing, Professor?"

Severus jumped in shock at the sound of the voice. He whipped around to the chair beside his bed, and was surprised to see a familiar green-eyed first year smiling at him.

"Hi," Potter waved cheerfully.

Severus opened his mouth to admonish the boy for being out of his dorms this time of the night, only to find that he couldn't move.

"Just a Full-Body bind, Professor. Wouldn't want you hurting yourself now, would we?"

Severus glared at him in impotent rage. How _dare_ this brat cast a spell on a teacher? He'd see him expelled for this! He. . . .

Wait. Did he just cast that spell _non-verbally_? And how did he get past Poppy's monitoring charms?

Something was wrong here. Very, _very_ wrong.

"I just thought I'd come up and check on you, Professor," Potter spoke casually, running his eyes over Snape's legs. "You look like you're healing up alright. Madam Pomfrey's pretty good at her job, isn't she?" He grinned.

He continued to stare at Snape's still form for a few minutes in silence. "I suppose I went a little _too_ far this time, didn't I?"

Severus looked at him in surprise. _What in the name of Merlin. . . .  
_

Potter looked at his face and grinned again. "I guess I don't know my own strength sometimes."

Clarity hit Severus like a lightning bolt.

 _It was him!_

Potter was the one responsible for all this! It wasn't Quirrell, it was _Potter_!

Severus thrashed against the spell in a futile attempt to wring the devil-spawn's neck. He settled for shooting him a venomous glare that would've cowed a lesser man.

But the Boy-Who-Lived merely chuckled. "So you _finally_ figured it out? Good to know."

He moved forward suddenly until he was practically nose to nose with the older man. "I want you to know that I take no pleasure in doing this to you; I really don't. I don't _enjoy_ hurting other people, you know. Even those who obviously _deserve_ it."

He traced the tip of his wand gently over the Potion Master's face. "But it was your own fault, you know. You really shouldn't have insulted my mother like that."

Severus nearly wet himself with fear. What the hell was wrong with the brat? His voice was so. . . . _cold_ , so void of emotion. No child should be able to speak that way.

Those emerald orbs of his cast an eerie glow in the darkness of the infirmary.

"I mean," he continued to speak in that same emotionless tone of voice, "the woman _died_ to save my life. I may not remember her, but still, she died to save me. Don't you think you should respect _that_ , if nothing else?"

Potter fixed him with an unblinking glare. "What is your problem with me _exactly_ , Professor?"

"I get that you had some kind of a. . . . _rivalry_ with my father. But d'you really think its fair for you to be taking out on _me_? Especially, when the man who supposedly wronged you has been dead for a _decade_?"

Severus glowered at the presumptuous child. Did he honestly think it was as _simple_ as that? He would've sneered if he could. That boy had no idea what he was talking about.

Potter, however, seemed to read his mind. "You misunderstand me, Professor. It is not that I do not _know_ what happened between you and my father," he moved closer, his voice dropping lower, "it's that I do not _care!_ "

His bright green eyes continued to gaze into the Potion Master's black ones. Taking a risk, Severus sent out a light legilimency probe intending to break the psychotic brat's concentration. To his surprise however, they simply bounced off some rather solid mental shields.

That threw him for a loop. Where in the world did Potter manage to learn occlumency?

If the boy noticed what he was attempting however, he did not react. "Ever since I've entered the Wizarding world, I've had only goal in mind. I want to find the monster responsible for taking my parents. . . . my childhood away from me, and _end_ him."

"Anything that is unrelated to the complete and utter destruction of Lord Voldemort is irrelevant to me." His eyes seemed to glow even brighter. " _You_ , Professor, are _irrelevant_."

His casual dismissal of Severus' very existence as ' _irrelevant_ ' caused a renewed wave of fury. The Potions Master struggled against the spell binding his body, itching to get his hands around the devil child's throat.

Potter merely smirked at him and reclined back in his chair.

"I really don't understand why you insist on continuing this pointless feud, Professor. Just what is it do you hope to gain by defeating me, hmmm?"

"That is, of course, assuming you can actually defeat me. Oh, I'm not talking about a magical duel or anything," he correctly interpreted the look of utter contempt in Severus' eyes. "In a duel I'm pretty sure you can kick my arse. No, I'm not talking about a magical battle; I'm talking about a political one."

"On one hand there's me: Boy-Who-Lived, bane of Dark Wizards, the Golden Gryffindor, protector of the weak and helpless; then there's you: former Death Eater, only able to survive persecution thanks to Dumbledore's good graces, and general all-round unpleasant person."

"Who do you think the people would be likely to support if it came down to between the both of us, huh Professor? How many witches and wizards will line up outside this castle to _lynch_ you when they realize that their Savior is being harassed by a former supporter of the Dark Lord?"

Severus kept growing paler with every single word out of his mouth. He finally realized, with a sinking feeling, that James Potter's spawn was absolutely right in his assessment. In the past few months he had, unknowingly, been digging his own grave.

And that was nothing to say about the _other_ students who'd be sure to support the boy. Realization hit him like a punch to the gut when he remembered that one of the Gryffindors he'd been continually harassing was the only grandson of one of the Governors of the school. Augusta Longbottom would kill him herself if she were to discover how he'd be treating her heir.

Once again Potter seemed to be able to read his mind. He smirked confidently. "Finally figured it out, have you? You know, for someone who's supposed to be the Head of the House of cunning, you're not exactly very sharp."

He leaned forward again, his expression once again cold and distant. "You are an insect that I can squash under my feet whenever it pleases me. You are insignificant to me. _You are nothing!_ "

Severus swallowed in fear, painfully aware of the small trickle of urine going down his leg.

"I came here tonight to make sure you get the message. I have only _one_ goal, Professor: the complete and utter annihilation of Lord Voldemort."

"And you can _fight_ at my side, or get _crushed_ under my heel, but you will _not_ stand in my way."

They locked gazes for several minutes, the boy's bright emerald orbs glowing with the promise of pain and destruction.

Then Potter grinned again. "I should get going now. Take care, Professor. Get well soon."

The Boy-Who-Lived walked out of the infirmary, satisfied that he'd gotten his point across.

* * *

As Severus Snape felt the curse imprisoning him fall away, he breathed an audible sigh of relief.

In his short career as a follower of the Dark Lord, he had seen many terrifying things. Yet for some reason, his encounter with the Potter child seemed to eclipse them all.

Never in all his life had he come so close to death (except perhaps for his Sixth year at Hogwarts). For that was what Potter's warning had truly been all about.

Harry Potter's message was extremely clear. If he so chose to, he could _kill_ Severus Snape and nobody would be able to do anything about it. Heck, nobody would be _willing_ to do anything about it. It was the whole reason Potter had chosen to attack him in the first place.

He couldn't help but feel a grudging admiration for the child. How positively Slytherin of him!

For a moment he debated showing the memory of this conversation to Albus. Let him see how _golden_ his beloved Gryffindor truly was!

He dismissed that thought as quickly as it came. No, it would not do to make an enemy out of Harry Potter.

Besides, the boy had made himself perfectly clear about his goals. He was committed to the destruction of the Dark Lord. Hell, he seemed practically _obsessed_ with it.

But that was alright. After all, isn't that what they all wanted?

No, it was for the best that Severus never spoke of this incident. He would let Dumbledore draw his own conclusions, and do his very best to stay the hell away from the Boy-Who-Lived.

He groaned softly as he settled down on his pillows.

One thing was for certain, when the Dark Lord finally faced Harry Potter, he would be in for a _very_ nasty surprise.

Severus almost felt sorry for the bastard.

Almost.

* * *

 **AN: Yeah, as you guys might've guessed, I really don't like Snape.  
**

 **This, of course, doesn't mean that Snape's a bad guy in this story. I'm sticking with canon for most of the characters, so yeah Snape is still on Dumbledore's side. And yes, I'm going for a good guy Dumbledore in this fic.  
**

 **Now before you all start smashing away your reviews saying "OMG! That's so unrealistic!", know that Harry in this story is pretty damn powerful. So yeah, there will be a few moments where he'll curb stomp his opponents. Seeing as Voldemort is also going to be a hell of a lot stronger than canon, I feel it will balance things out.**

 **And for those wondering why Snape would cave so easily, there're two reasons. One is that Canon Snape despised Harry because he thought he was a "talentless" bum like his father. A cunning and ruthlessly strong Harry will actually impress him.**

 **The second is that Snape is (fundamentally) a bully, and all bullies tend to falter when their victims strike back with sudden and overwhelming force.**

 **"But, but Snape was bullied by James" - and he repaid him by getting him and his wife killed. Then he spent the six years telling James' orphaned son that his father was an arrogant asshole. Think that pretty much makes them even.**

 **"But Snape had an abusive childhood" - so did Harry. You don't see him treating other people like dirt.**

 **"But Snape was a spy, so he had to act like that" - there is not a single instance in Canon where we see the good guys benefiting from his spying. If anything, he's done a lot of shit under the guise of maintaining his cover. He sold out Emmaline Vance, cut off George's ear, did nothing to help the Hogwarts students getting tortured under Voldemort's rule. . . I could go on all day.**

 **"But Snape _loved_ Lily" - bullshit. He was _obsessed_ with her; and when she rejected him for calling her a racist name in public, he went and joined up with the very group that wanted to kill her. That's like your black friend snubs you when you call her the n-word in public, and you go and join the KKK. That's not love, that's fucked up shit.**

 **Personally, I'd love to see him die a slow and agonizing death at Harry's hands, but for the purposes of the story he'll stay as one of the good guys. I'll make him earn it though.**


	4. Goal

Ron Weasley reclined leisurely in his armchair, smirking at his opponent.

A year ago, if someone had told him he'd become best mates with the Boy-Who-Lived and end up joining him on insane adventures at Hogwarts, he'd have called them nuttier than a fruitcake.

Yet here he was, sitting in his favorite chair in the Gryffindor common room, playing chess with the Savior of the Wizarding world.

And better yet. . . . winning.

"Check. Mate in three," he said smugly.

Harry Potter sighed as he pushed the board away from him. "Fine, I give up. You win."

Ron grinned. It wasn't very often that his friend lost at anything. Heck, after spending almost a year by his side, he could say without a shred of doubt that there were very few things the Boy-Who-Lived was not good at.

He was just glad chess was one of them.

Most people would have seen this and remarked that Ron Weasley was a rather petty child to gain such obscene satisfaction over a simple game of chess.

That was alright. Most people didn't know what kind of a life Ron had really lived.

The youngest Weasley boy in a family with seven children, he had spent pretty much his entire life standing in the shadows. Each of his siblings received special attention from his parents for one reason or the other.

Bill was the eldest, and thus his mother's favorite, and was talented enough to be one of Gringotts' youngest curse-breakers; Charlie had been one of Gryffindor house's most famous quidditch players; Percy was, if possible, better at academics than even Bill had ever been, and had a drive that was sure to lead an illustrious career in the Ministry; Fred and George were known for their wit, and their status as troublemakers was legendary; Ginny, of course, was the youngest child and the only daughter to have been born in the Weasley family in seven generations.

Ron was just. . . Ron.

He was average in his studies, nothing special to look at, and didn't have the intelligence or wit of any of his other siblings.

 _Nothing special._ Yes, those words summed up his entire existence perfectly.

He had spent his entire life being overlooked because of his brothers. Nothing he owned was first-hand (hell, even his rat had spent his early days with Percy). To family friends and acquaintances, he was an afterthought at best. He was _that_ brother: the one who everyone knew existed, but no one knew who he was.

Sometimes, he wondered if his parents cared for him even half as much as they did for the rest of their children.

He had resigned himself to a life in the shadows even at Hogwarts. After all, someone who had spent their entire life struggling to stand out among six siblings could never possible hope to stand out among hundreds of students in the greatest school of magic in Europe.

Or at least that's what he'd thought. . . .until he'd met Harry Potter.

He smiled as he watched his friend good-naturedly curse under his breath. He'd never admit it aloud, but having the Boy-Who-Lived call _him_ his best friend was the proudest achievement of his life.

Harry Potter had chosen to be friends with him of all people. Not some uppity pureblood like Malfoy, not someone influential like Neville, not even someone as intelligent and talented as Hermione. . . . but _him_ , Ron Weasley.

There were days when this single fact was all that kept him going.

"Say Ron," the Boy-Who-Lived interrupted his thoughts, "you're _really_ good at chess mate."

"Er. . . Thanks." He fought hard not to blush.

"It's a shame Wizards don't have chess tournaments like the muggles. You could've seriously considered a career in this."

"Muggles have chess tournaments?" Ron perked up at this piece of unexpected news.

"Yeah, muggles play chess as professional sport, not just for leisure like Wizards do. It's a pretty serious thing. Lots of money involved as well."

The mention of money got Ron excited. He briefly considered participating in one of these competitions, before remembering with a sinking feeling that muggle chess pieces were different from Wizarding chessmen. Besides, he knew for a fact that his mother wouldn't approve of him making a career out of _muggle_ chess of all things. She may not be a pureblood bigot, but she _was_ a rather old-fashioned pureblood witch and as such didn't have a high opinion of muggles like his father did.

"That's cool," he faked a yawn. "Should we turn in for the night?"

"Yeah, sure."

As they got ready for bed, Harry spoke. "Hey, Ron."

"Yeah?"

"There was something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Go on, mate."

"It's about the Mirror of Erised."

Ron looked at his friend warily. "Mate, you know we can't go looking for it again, right? Dumbledore said. . . ."

"I'm not saying we go looking for it. No, I just wanted to talk about it."

"Okay," Ron settled himself into his bed. "What d'you want to talk about?"

"I wanted to talk about what _you_ saw in the mirror."

Ron stiffened. He'd always regretted telling Harry everything so readily that night. "What about it?"

Some of his wariness must have shown, since Harry's voice adopted a soothing tone. "I just wanted to know. . . . why d'you think you saw yourself like that in the mirror?"

He was silent. What could he say? That he didn't like being overlooked all the time because of his brothers? What would his friend, the extremely talented Boy-Who-Lived, think of him if he said something like that?

"I dunno."

Harry was silent for a few moments. "Ron, don't you think you worry about your brothers a little _too_ much, sometimes?"

He felt a brief spark of irritation. What the hell did _he_ know?

"I know I don't have much of a right to say this, since I don't have any siblings and all," Ron stared at his friend in shock. _Can he read minds or something?_ "But I really think you should stop regarding your brothers as a benchmark of success."

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean the world is a huge place, Ron. You don't have to always look at your brothers as your source of inspiration. There are plenty of ways to find a different standard to strive against."

"How do I do that?" Ron was curious now.

"Well, let's start with something simple. What're you interested in? As in _really_ interested in?"

He thought for a second. "Chess, I guess. . . ."

"I'm not talking about what you're _good_ at, Ron," Harry said patiently. "I'm asking you: what are you, Ron Weasley, _really_ interested in?"

The answer was simple, really. "Quidditch."

"Excellent," Harry said happily. "Now, I want you think about this: if you, Ron Weasley, were an only child of your parents (no siblings whatsoever), what would you want to do with your life?"

"I'd like to play for the Chudley Cannons," Ron said before he could stop himself.

"Well, there you go," the Boy-Who-Lived sounded smug. "Now you know where you want to go. All you have to do is figure out how to get there."

"Are you daft?" Ron goggled at his friend. "Mate, becoming a Professional Quidditch player isn't easy."

"Nothing worth doing ever is, Ron. Nothing worth doing ever is."

* * *

If there was one good thing about having lots of siblings, Ron decided, it was getting lots of presents.

He grinned as he tore through the large stack of birthday presents at the foot of his bed. He was just admiring a wristwatch Bill had sent him from Egypt when his eyes fell on a long, thin package at the very bottom.

 _No way. It can't be. . .  
_

He unwrapped it, only to see a beautiful broomstick reveal itself, the words _Nimbus 2000_ emblazoned on it in gold lettering.

His jaw dropped.

"Great, it's finally here."

He looked up in surprise to see Harry Potter standing over him.

"I was hoping they'd deliver it in time for your birthday," he grinned at the shocked redhead. "Happy Birthday, Ron."

"Harry. . . mate. . . . you. . . wha. . ."

"Yeah, you're welcome," the grinning Boy-Who-Lived settled down on the bed, helping himself to a Chocolate Frog.

Ron swallowed. "Thanks mate!"

"Like I said, you're welcome."

"But you really shouldn't have," he held the broom like it was made of glass. "It must've cost you a fortune."

"Actually, they gave me a pretty big discount. Turns out having the Boy-Who-Lived riding their finest broom in Hogwarts' quidditch matches has boosted their sales quite a bit." He winked at the gaping redhead.

"Wow." Ron was impressed. Trust his friend to come up with something so smart.

"But wait," he said with a frown. "Aren't first years not allowed to have their own broomsticks?"

"There's nothing in the school rules that says first-years can't be _gifted_ broomsticks," Harry pointed out. "Besides, term is almost at an end anyways. In a month, we won't even _be_ first-years anymore."

"Well. . . yeah. I still think McGonagall. . . ."

"If McGonagall's got a problem she can take it up with _me_ ," Harry said firmly. "Seeing as I'm about to win her the Quidditch cup the next month, I'm sure she'll be willing to cut me some slack."

"You got an answer for everything, don't you?" Ron gazed him shrewdly.

"Yup," he said happily, munching away on the frog.

"Harry, mate," Ron hesitated, not knowing what to say. "Thanks," he finished somewhat lamely.

"Don't mention it," he waved his hand. "Besides, there was something I was hoping you could do for me."

"Name it," Ron said eagerly.

"I want you to join the Gryffindor quidditch team next year."

Ron gaped at him. "Mate, what're you. . . ?"

"You heard me," the Boy-Who-Lived said. "I want you to join the team next year."

"But. . . but, there aren't any open spots."

"It doesn't matter if there aren't any vacancies," Harry waved his concerns aside. "We'll still be holding try-outs for reserve players or whatnot. I don't care if you end up replacing someone on the team or not, Ron. Just make sure you're _there_."

"Well. . . ." Ron was hesitant. "I suppose I could give it a shot."

"No," Harry said sharply. "I'm not asking you to ' _give it a shot_ '. I'm asking you to secure a place on the team, no matter the cost. There's a _difference_ , Ron." His hard gaze made the redhead squirm uncomfortably.

"But, I don't know if I'm good enough," he whined.

"Then _make_ yourself good enough Ron. You've got time."

"Harry, you don't get it," Ron burst out angrily. "We can't all do whatever we want to."

"I'm not like you, Harry! I'm not a talented flyer like you! I'm not. . . ."

He was cut off as the Boy-Who-Lived grabbed him by the scruff of his pajamas and pulled him forward until they were almost nose-to-nose.

"You listen to _me_ , Ron Weasley." His bright green eyes bore into the redhead's blue ones. " _Talent_ has nothing to do with this. You want to know _why_? Because _hard work_ beats talent any day."

Ron gulped in fear. Staring into those hard eyes, he couldn't help but feel just a tiny sliver of fear worm itself into him. He was uncomfortably aware of just how much stronger the smaller boy was compared to him.

When the Boy-Who-Lived spoke next, his voice was calm and level. But, his eyes continued to glow with power. "You say you're not good enough. I say, _make_ yourself good enough. You got a makeshift quidditch ground back home don't you?" The other boy nodded rapidly. "You've got _two months_ until term starts again. I want you to use that time wisely. Work hard, _become_ good enough, and get onto the Gryffindor quidditch team. Get your brothers to help you out if you can. . . . I don't care. One way or another, you're going to be playing _with_ me next year. Got it?"

Ron swallowed and nodded fearfully.

"Great," he smiled suddenly, letting go of Ron's collar and causing him to face plant into the bed. "C'mon, let's go have breakfast. I'm starving."

Ron stared open-mouthed as his friend walked out of the room, whistling softly.

The bloke was _completely_ bonkers!

* * *

Ron Weasley stood outside the orchard behind his home, broomstick in hand.

All his life, he'd never really had any kind a goal to dedicate himself to. Never had anything to aspire to. His own family never had high expectations of him, so naturally neither did Ron himself.

It was why he had chosen to simply find solace in the smaller pleasures of life. He enjoyed food, he enjoyed chess, he enjoyed talking about quidditch. . . he was content with doing these mundane things.

But now?

He glanced down at the expensive racing broom in his hands.

For the first time in his life, someone had chosen to believe in him; for the first time in his life, someone hadn't laughed or made fun of him when he talked about his dream for playing for the Cannons; for the first time in his life, someone had made him feel that he was _worth_ something.

Harry Potter, his best mate, had given him more than just an expensive broomstick. . . he had given him _purpose_.

Ron strode into the orchard with his head held high. He'd be damned if he disappointed his friend.

* * *

 _Nothing worth doing is ever easy._

These words ran through his mind every day.

Day and night he practiced. Whenever he found an hour in between homework and chores, he worked on his broomstick. He even bribed the Twins into spending some time with him, playing Chasers while he played Keeper. He found he was able to block most of their shots easily, although it might've simply been that they were terrible shots with the quaffle.

In the end, he'd convinced his dad to bewitch the quaffle to randomly attack the goalposts like a bludger. That definitely gave him more of a challenge.

Initially, no one had taken him seriously when he spoke about wanting to join the Gryffindor quidditch team next year. The Twins had even taken to making fun of him, saying ickle Ronnekins thought he was a player simply because he had a better broom now.

They'd shut up after watching him practice relentlessly for close to four weeks.

He was so engrossed in his quidditch practice that he'd completely forgotten that today was the day his father was going to pick up Harry from his relatives. He realized his mistake only when he heard his friend's voice coming from the nearby trees. Cursing himself for his forgetfulness, he quickly flew down and sprinted to the entrance of the orchard.

"And _there_ he is, ladies and gentlemen," Fred said, waving his hands dramatically. "Let's give a big hand to the new Cannons Keeper, Ronaaaaaald Weasley."

"Seriously mate, did you put a sticking charm on the thing or something?" George asked. "I could've sworn he doesn't get off the damn thing at all! Not even when he goes to the loo."

"Leave him alone guys," Harry said, smiling at the approaching form of his friend.

"Harry. . . mate. . ." Ron panted. "Sorry. . . completely forgot. . . ."

"It's fine, mate. I'm here now, aren't I?"

For a moment Ron was confused by the expression in Harry's eyes. There was a little bit of amusement, and something else. . . . something he had rarely seen before.

He had seen that look in his father's eyes when Bill became Head Boy, he had seen that look in his mother's eyes when Percy became prefect. . . he had seem that look in the eyes of his parents plenty of times. But not at him. . . _never_ at him.

Pride.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, his friend was _proud_ of him.

Ron Weasley smiled more brightly than he had in days.

* * *

It was a very happy Weasley who made his way back to the dorms that night.

He was in! He'd been selected for the Gryffindor quidditch team! All his hard work had finally paid off!

Wood had asked him to hang back after try-outs and told him that he was rather impressed with his performance back there. Not surprising, considering he'd blocked ninety percent of the shots from Gryffindor's famous Chaser trio.

Of course, given that Wood was still captain, Ron would be on the team only as a reserve, but it was still better than nothing. He only had to spend a couple of years on the sidelines (which to be frank, he could use to improve his knowledge of on-field tactics), and then the position would be _his!_ Heck, Wood had even offered to let him play a few matches before that, provided the team had a comfortable lead from the start.

He made his way to the common room, intent on sharing this news with Harry (who left the pitch a little earlier). He slowed down as he heard the loud voices of two of his friends, who seemed to be having a disagreement of sorts.

". . . not sure this is a good idea, Harry," Hermione was saying. "Ron needs to be focusing on his studies, not wasting his time on something as silly as quidditch."

"He's not _wasting_ his time on anything, Hermione," Harry's voice was calm and collected as ever. He even sounded slightly amused. "Ron wants to be a professional quidditch player someday. He _needs_ to be on the team if he wants to stand a chance of being taken seriously by recruiters in the future."

"Oh Harry," Hermione sounded exasperated. "You honestly don't take Ron seriously when he says that, do you? He's just on a high because you bought him that broomstick on his birthday! Ron doesn't _have_ the kind of commitment needed to become a professional quidditch player. He _needs_ to be focusing on improving his grades!" Her condescending tone made his ears turn red with anger.

Harry seemed to have noticed it as well because the amusement vanished from his voice when he spoke next. "Hermione, has it _ever_ occurred to you that everyone else might _not_ have the same priorities that you do?"

Hermione seemed taken aback. "But Harry, I. . . "

"But _nothing_ , Hermione! It's one thing for you to constantly browbeat others into taking their studies seriously during exam time; it's another thing entirely when you start forcing your beliefs down other people's _throats!_ "

"I don't. . . ." Hermione began hotly, but Harry cut her off sharply.

"Yes you do, Hermione. _Don't_ deny it! I've seen how you act when someone does or says something you tend to disagree with. Standing up for what you believe in is one thing, but that doesn't give you the right to start shoving your opinions on others; especially when you yourself don't have the whole picture."

Hermione was silent after that. Ron honestly couldn't blame her. He could easily imagine the glare the Boy-Who-Lived must have fixed her with. It wasn't a pleasant feeling to be on the receiving end of one of those.

"Ron isn't an academic, nor will he ever be. His interest has _always_ been on the quidditch pitch, and now that he's fully realized it none of us have a right to take that away from him."

"I know you like to think about quidditch as just another silly game, Hermione. But look at it from a Wizard's point of view. Unlike non-magical folks, quidditch is the _only_ sport they have. People like Ron and Oliver have practically grown up with it. How d'you suppose they feel when they hear you, a muggleborn, openly criticize it? For Merlin's sake Hermione, quidditch is way of life for some Wizards! D'you even know how many witches and wizards are employed by professional leagues and companies manufacturing quidditch merchandise?"

The young witch was silent for several long minutes. Ron heard Harry sigh loudly, and when he next spoke his voice had lost his edge.

"For what it's worth, I'm fully confident that Ron will manage to get into the leagues with little difficulty. In fact, I fully expect him to start captaining the house team by our. . . sixth year, give or take."

Ron's jaw dropped. He didn't have to look at Hermione's face to know she was wearing an identical expression. Him as _Quidditch Captain_?

"Harry," Hermione said softly. "Don't you think that's a little. . . ?"

"Far-fetched? Nah, I don't think so," Ron could hear the amusement back in his voice. "Ron's got one of the best strategic minds I've ever seen. Better than yours, better than even mine. Combine that with quidditch, and well. . . ."

"But wouldn't you be more likely to become Captain, Harry? You've got tenure, after all," Hermione pointed out.

The Boy-Who-Lived merely laughed. "Hermione, I'm a Seeker! All my attention goes into hunting for the bloody snitch when I'm in the game. There's no way I'd be able to adjust tactics for the rest of the team _and_ do my job properly. Now Ron on the other hand. . ."

"Ron on the other hand, plays Keeper. That means he's the _only_ player on the team who actually gets to stay more or less stationary throughout the whole game. Can you tell me what that means?"

"He's got a better overview of the game than anybody else," Hermione answered readily. "It'll be easier for him to adjust on-field tactics, and he'll also be able to react much faster to any changes in the opponent's strategy. Gosh Harry, I've never thought of that before!" Ron could hear the surprise in her voice.

"Well, there you have it. And we know better than anyone else just how good Ron is when it comes to strategy, especially when he's under pressure. Remember McGonagall's chess set?"

"I know what you mean. It always surprised me how calm and level-headed he was when playing through those chessmen back there. With the stakes as high as they were. . . I'm not sure I would've been able to keep my cool like that."

"Neither would I," Harry agreed. "It's why I choose to put so much faith in him; and if you're really his friend Hermione, so should you."

"You're right. I shouldn't have said those things," she sounded ashamed. "I guess I'll go to bed now, Harry. You've given me a lot to think about."

"Good night, Hermione. Don't stay up too late."

* * *

This was it. This was what he'd been working so hard for all those months.

The final quidditch match of the season: Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff. Unfortunately for the Lions, Wood had been injured the previous day in a training accident; which meant that Ron would be making his debut as Keeper in what was easily the most important match of the year.

In order to win the cup, Gryffindor had to win the game by a margin of one hundred points. That meant most of the pressure was on him and Harry.

 _Great. Just great._

Ron Weasley walked out on the pitch with the rest of the team amid deafening cheers. The loud cheering, the harsh sunlight, the constant jeering from the Slytherins. . .

He was struggling to not turn around and high tail it back to the tower.

He thought back to his conversation with Harry just after the first match with the Slytherins. They'd been alone in the changing rooms.

" _Hey Harry, mate."_

" _Yeah, Ron?"_

" _How do you do it?"_

" _Do what?" the Boy-Who-Lived asked._

 _Ron swallowed, not knowing how to put it into words. His friend continued to stare at him patiently._

" _How d'you stand it. . . all that attention on the field? All those people cheering and booing you? All those players taunting you all the time? All that. . .pressure? How do you_ _ **deal**_ _with it?"_

" _Hmmm. . . ." Harry seemed thoughtful. "I really don't know how the others choose to deal with all that crap. Me, I simply choose_ _ **not**_ _to focus on all that stuff."_

" _What?" Ron regarded him blankly._

" _I'm a Seeker, Ron," Harry explained. "My job is to catch the snitch; and frankly, that's_ _ **all**_ _that I choose to concern myself with. When I'm on the field, the only thing I can see is the snitch, and the opposing seeker. I'm blind to pretty much everything else."_

" _But. . . but that's just crazy, Harry! What about the bludgers? What about the score? What about. . .?"_

 _The Boy-Who-Lived merely chuckled. "Isn't that what the rest of the team is for?"_

 _Ron gaped at him._

" _I_ _ **trust**_ _my team, Ron. I trust them to do their jobs, just as I do mine."_

" _Everything else is just noise."_

Ron took a deep breath.

Do your job. Trust your team to do theirs. Everything else is just noise.

Time itself seemed to slow down as a Hufflepuff chaser flew towards him. Dimly, he was aware of Madam Hooch shouting something to his left, Fred was knocking a bludger somewhere on his right, he could hear the Slytherins singing some kind of song about him. . .

It didn't matter. None of it did.

Ron dived.

* * *

They had won!

Once again, Harry had pulled off another amazing dive and clinched the game.

Madam hooch's final whistle signalled the end of the game, and Ron felt like his eardrums were about to explode from the cacophony of the crowd.

He was tangled up in a massive hug with the rest of the team as they made their way back to the ground. Everyone was screaming their heads off, the crowd was singing. . .

Wait a minute. Singing?

 _Weasley is our King,_

 _Weasley is our King,_

 _He didn't let the Quaffle in,_

 _Weasley is our King. . .  
_

Wait. . . what? What _was_ that? Were they singing about _him_?

 _Weasley can save anything,_

 _He never leaves a single ring_

 _That's why Gryffindors all sing:_

 _Weasley is our King._

A very surprised Ron Weasley was lifted onto the shoulders of the cheering crowd and led away to the tower.

* * *

"Ron, you don't have to come with us if you don't want to."

"Blimey, Hermione! You're daft if you think I'm letting you two go into the Forest by yourselves."

"But there might be acromantula in there. . . ."

He suppressed a shudder at that. His phobia of spiders was something both of his friends were well aware of. He knew there was a good chance that if they _did_ run into one of those giant spiders, he'd probably be too scared to be of any use to them.

Still, that didn't mean he'd let his friends face something like that without him.

 _But what if I only end up getting in the way. . . ?_

"Ron. . ."

He looked into the bright green eyes of his best friend.

"Are you sure about this?" he fixed him with his usual penetrating gaze.

Ron swallowed.

In that moment, there were so many things that Ron Weasley wanted to say to the Boy-Who-Lived. He wanted to tell him how grateful he was for everything he'd done for him, he wanted to tell him how much his faith in his abilities mattered, he wanted to tell him what it meant for Ron to have someone who was ready to stand up for him and his dreams. . .

Instead he merely narrowed his eyes and nodded. "I've got your back, mate. No matter what."

Harry Potter merely smiled at him and turned to the portrait hole.

 _Yes,_ thought Ron Weasley, as they made their way to the Forbidden Forest to follow up on his insane clue. _That's right._

He would always have Harry's back. He would readily follow him, no matter where he chose to go. He would walk with him into hell itself, and not think twice.

Harry Potter was the first person to have ever shown faith in him and his abilities.

He would die before he betrayed that faith.

* * *

 **AN: This is by far the most difficult chapter, I've written so far, seeing as Ron is one of my least favorite characters in the series.  
**

 **One thing that's always irked me throughout the entire series is how little the so-called Golden Trio seem to care for each other. I mean, being friends doesn't mean you never call each other out on your bullshit; often, its quite the opposite really.**

 **Just as Ron and Hermione never call Harry out on his near suicidal bravery and general lack of confidence, even Harry never tries to confront Ron about his jealousy or Hermione on her arrogance. As we've all seen, this later comes back to bite them all in the butt.**


	5. Slytherin

Lucius Malfoy glanced at his expensive pocket-watch for the umpteenth time that day.

Their guest was due any minute now.

He took a deep breath and reinforced his mental shields. He had to keep his emotions on a _very_ tight leash today. The person arriving for lunch at their manor had a habit of bringing out his more reckless side.

He dimly recalled one of the many pieces of advice his father, the late Abraxas Malfoy, had often repeated to him in one of his study sessions. "Always keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

Lucius had always kept this nugget of wisdom at the forefront of his mind. It had served him well during his frequent political dealings at the Ministry and was one of the reasons he had accomplished so much despite being accused of being a supporter of the Dark Lord barely a decade ago.

But even _he_ had to admit that this new development was rather. . . . unexpected.

When Draco had informed him yesterday that Harry Potter had accepted an invitation to lunch at their home, Lucius had honestly been taken aback. Even more astonishing was the fact that his son, who had spent the first two years of his schooling insulting the Boy-Who-Lived, was now boasting of a friendship with the child.

For once, Lucius had no idea what to make of this new development. On one hand, he was proud that his son had managed to establish a cordial relationship with someone as influential as the Boy-Who-Lived; on the other hand, considering the last encounter between himself and the obnoxious child (where he had been tricked into freeing his own traitorous house-elf) he wasn't exactly looking forward to sit down at the same table as him.

The fact that this was happening barely a week after Sirius Black had gotten his freedom and assumed the title of Lord Black only served to heighten his paranoia.

But he had no time to dwell upon this as the fireplace burned green and their guest gracefully stepped forward into their home.

"Draco," Potter said happily, pulling the taller teen into a one-armed hug.

Lucius' jaw nearly dropped at this display of camaraderie between the two boys.

"Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy. Thank you for inviting me to your home," the green-eyed teen said as he gave both the adults a polite bow and a handshake.

"It's our pleasure, Mr Potter," Narcissa said with a genuine smile. "And please, call me Narcissa."

"Very well, Aunt Narcissa. Please call me Harry," the boy said with a happy smile. "Do you mind if I call you 'Uncle Lucius', Lord Malfoy?"

The Malfoy patriarch had to fight to keep a grimace off his face. "Not at all, Mr Pot-Harry."

 _Damn woman and her motherly instincts!_

* * *

Lunch at the Malfoy Manor was livelier than Lucius ever remembered.

It was plain to see that the boy had inherited every bit of James Potter's wit and charisma. He effortlessly indulged both Draco and Narcissa in conversation on various topics, ranging from Hogwarts to the many eccentricities of the Wizarding world. Lucius also noticed that the boy was very careful to throw in the odd compliment or two towards his wife and his son, all without appearing overly ingratiating or pedestrian.

Watching this, Lucius couldn't help but feel a small amount of irrational anger. Perhaps it was time to knock the boy down a peg or two.

"Harry," he suddenly said. "Has Lord Black been granted your guardianship by the Ministry yet?"

"I'm afraid he hasn't, Uncle Lucius."

 _Of course he hasn't, foolish child; and he never will as long as Cornelius answers to me!_

"Why not?" Narcissa asked with a frown. She might not have been fond of her cousin, but she didn't exactly dislike him either.

"Probably because he never applied for it in the first place," Potter replied with a cheeky grin.

Lucius froze. "Why not, Harry?" He did his best to sound as casual as possible.

"Because I asked him not to. I'm quite happy living with my aunt."

"Your aunt is a muggle, is she not?" Lucius asked, trying his hardest to not let his disdain show.

"She is."

"Does she treat you well, Harry?" Narcissa asked with genuine concern.

"She does," Harry replied with an honest smile. "Ever since Uncle Vernon died in an. . . _accident_ years ago, she's worked very hard for both my cousin Dudley and me. She was there for me when no one else was. It just wouldn't feel right to walk away from her after everything we've been through together."

Lucius' sharp ears picked up on the way the boy sounded when he spoke about his uncle. _Something isn't right._

He narrowed his eyes. Apparently there was more to the young Potter than he'd expected.

* * *

After lunch, Draco gave his friend an impromptu tour of their manor. Lucius observed his son chatter excitedly about the various priceless artifacts and portraits which decorated their home, a politely interested Harry Potter following on his heels. Later, they retired to the grounds for a small game of quidditch, excitedly discussing the upcoming World Cup final.

As the sun began to set, Harry Potter excused himself and joined the senior Malfoy for a cup of tea in the Library.

It was time to get down to business.

"Well Mr Pot-Harry, I believe there was something you wished to discuss with me," Lucius drawled.

"Quite right, Uncle Lucius," the Boy-Who-Lived smiled at him over his teacup. "I actually wanted to ask you a question, if you wouldn't mind?"

"Not at all," he answered calmly.

"I just wanted to know, sir. . . why _exactly_ did you choose to follow the Dark Lord?"

Lucius nearly choked on his tea. He did not know what was more surprising: the sheer audacity of the teenager sitting before him, or the fact that the Boy-Who-Lived had referred to Lord Voldemort as the 'Dark Lord', a moniker only his supporters and sympathizers used.

"Why would you ask such a thing, Mr Potter?"

The boy merely smiled at him brightly. "You know, I've always admired you a great deal, Uncle Lucius."

The senior Malfoy merely raised an eyebrow at the unexpected compliment.

"Oh yes, I have," he continued, disregarding the older man's expression. "A great deal in fact. Do you know why?"

"It's because you have accomplished in ten years what Lord Voldemort failed to accomplish in his lifetime. You're one of the most powerful and influential members of the British Wizarding community; you have the ear of the Minister for Magic himself; you hold important positions in every single major business establishment in our society, both here and abroad. . .

Lucius listened patiently. There had to be a point to all this.

"Which begs the question," Harry shot him a piercing look, "why would someone like _you_ follow someone like Voldemort? Why would a Lord of the proud Malfoy line debase himself by prostrating before a half-blood bastard like Riddle?"

This brought him up short. Lucius had always known that the Dark Lord was a half-blood. He had known since the time he'd discovered that the man's birth name was Tom Marvolo Riddle. But a _bastard_? This was new.

"You mean you didn't know?" The Boy-Who-Lived's smile had assumed a predatory quality now.

"Thomas Marvolo Riddle: son of Merope Gaunt, a squib of the disgraced Gaunt line and Thomas Riddle, a rich muggle from the village of Little Hangleton. Conceived via love potion."

Lucius' jaw nearly dropped in surprise. The Dark Lord was a descendant of the _Gaunt_ family!?

Like all old pureblood families, Lucius was well aware of the story of that household. The Gaunts were notorious among the old families for their extensive use of Dark Magic, and for their disgusting habit of marrying their own cousins. They were an extremely ancient pureblood house who boasted of being one of the last direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself. They were also noted for a vein of mental instability and a thirst for violence that ran in their blood, leading them to lose their wealth and noble status in relatively short time.

The Gaunts had often been used as an example by the pro-muggleborn faction as an example of what interbreeding between purebloods would eventually lead to.

Last Lucius had heard, the family had become extinct close to half a century ago. If what Potter said was true, the Dark Lord was the last remaining member of the accursed Gaunt line. _And with a muggle no less!_

Lucius looked up to see a smug looking Harry Potter sitting back in the chair across from him.

"How do you _know_ all this?"

"I have my ways," the Boy-Who-Lived's smile had become a full-blown smirk by this point. "Suffice to say, I like to investigate my enemies as thoroughly as possible. Knowledge is power, after all."

Lucius' eyes narrowed at the veiled threat. "Assuming what you've said to me is true. . ."

"Oh it is true," Potter interrupted. "As you're going to find out for yourself, once you hire some decent investigators who know where to look."

". . . why are you telling me this?" Lucius finished, acting as though the boy had not spoken.

The boy's smirk grew wider. "I just told you, didn't I? I _respect_ you, Uncle Lucius. Despite whatever. . . differences we may have had in the past," bright green eyes flashed for the briefest of moments, "I have always admired your intelligence and resourcefulness."

"After all, a wizard as smart as you must have already seen the signs, _felt_ the omens. . . ." Lucius drew back his left forearm slightly.

Emerald orbs burned brightly as they locked onto Lucius' grey ones. "Lord Voldemort is going to return."

It took all of Lucius' occlumency training to keep his face neutral, even as his heart sank in despair. The Boy-Who-Lived had just confirmed his worst fears.

The signs had truly been unmistakeable. In the last month, there had been an increased activity among various dark creatures, not to mention unexplained disappearances of witches and wizards. Lucius' informants had brought news that something dark was stirring in the forests of Albania, where the Dark Lord was rumored to be hiding out.

Peter Pettigrew's escape during his transport to Azkaban had done nothing to soothe his fears.

But hearing Harry Potter say those words brought the whole situation home like nothing else had.

"Sirius and I were talking the other day," the boy's quiet voice broke him out of his increasingly morbid thoughts. "About the First Wizarding War. Terror, confusion, chaos. . . that's how he described it."

Privately, Lucius thought that Black was understating things a little. The First War had been one of the most terrible things the British Wizarding world had ever seen. Isolated from the rest of Europe, they had merely _heard_ of the atrocities committed during the war with Grindelwald. But Voldemort had brought that horror home and thrust it in the general public's faces with a vengeance.

It was when the fighting had actually started that Lucius regretted taking that madman's mark.

"You know, I actually met Voldemort face to face in my first year." Lucius' horrified gaze snapped to the stoic face of the green-eyed teen. _It was **true**? The Dark Lord really **was** within the school three years ago? _ Lucius shuddered at his son's near brush with death.

But Potter didn't seem to notice. He was looking out the window, absentmindedly swirling his tea in the cup.

"I was actually rather impressed with the guy back then. Oh yes," he correctly interpreted the senior Malfoy's look of surprise, "despite our _history_ , I was actually rather impressed by the Dark Lord and his. . . tenacity. His personal philosophy was pretty good too: 'There is no good and evil. There's only power, and those too weak to seek it.' It's something I can actually agree with."

"But then I learnt of his history, and I was honestly taken aback. I mean, I always thought of the man as a visionary, you know: a _leader_ fighting for a legitimate cause. Instead, I find that he's just an attention-starved child with delusions of grandeur."

The Boy-Who-Lived gave a small chuckle. "Mommy didn't love him, daddy didn't care for him. . . so the little boy went and threw a temper tantrum." His voice was mocking now. "The _great_ Lord Voldemort, the worst Dark Lord in history, is nothing more than an attention seeking _brat_ with daddy issues!"

His grip on the teacup tightened. "I refuse to stand back and watch our world burn because of the whims of a spoiled child who feels the world owes him something. I cannot. . . _will not_ allow him to destroy all that is beautiful in our world simply because that insane bastard has abandonment issues."

Lucius gaped at the boy sitting before him. He didn't know whether to feel shocked or impressed. The boy had just casually insulted the most dangerous Dark Wizard the world had ever seen, one whose name was still feared a decade after his defeat.

 _ **He**_ _more than any other has that right. If what he says is true, he has defeated the Dark Lord_ _ **twice**_ _now, with nothing more than two years of Hogwarts education. Not to mention slaying the monster of Slytherin single-handedly. . . .  
_

Lucius was suddenly glad that his son had chosen to extend that invitation on his behalf.

He nearly started as the Boy-Who-Lived turned his blazing green eyes upon him. "Tell me _Uncle Lucius_ ," there was no mistaking the menacing quality to his voice now, "do you really want your son to go through hell because of _one sadistic_ individual? Do you really wish to throw away everything you've achieved, all your hard work, so that a megalomaniac with mental problems can fulfill his twisted fantasies? Do you really want the dark days from the past to return with a vengeance, and destroy the small semblance of peace and stability we have all sacrificed so much to attain, all for the sake of one single madman?"

The two men stared at each other for a few minutes in silence. Finally, Lucius took a sip from his teacup, breaking eye contact with the young man.

"I shall. . . _think_ about what you've said, Harry."

"That's all I ask, sir."

For a few moments, the two men merely glanced out of the window at the steadily darkening sky.

"Tell me one thing, Harry."

"Yes?"

"How _exactly_ did you kill Slytherin's monster all by yourself?"

The Boy-Who-Lived merely grinned at him. "Who said anything about _killing_ it, Uncle?"

* * *

After bidding goodbye to Draco, and exacting a promise from Narcissa to visit the Black ancestral home sometime soon, Harry Potter departed from Malfoy Manor.

True to his word, Lucius Malfoy did indeed think upon the Boy-Who-Lived's words. Sitting alone in front of the fireplace, a glass of scotch in his hands, he mulled over the conversation in the library.

Dark times were coming.

Lucius sighed heavily. As much as he hated to admit it, the boy was absolutely right.

The Dark Lord was no leader, no visionary, no champion of the pureblood cause. . . he was simply a selfish and greedy man who wanted everything for himself. Like a spoiled child who believes that the world revolves around him, he wanted nothing more than to claim all that was good in their world for himself. . . and to hell with the rest of them.

His time as a Death Eater had shown him that.

He glanced at the faint outline of the Dark Mark on his arm, steadily growing clearer by the day.

His greatest mistake. His greatest regret.

He had been young back then. Young and foolish. He had believed in the Dark Lord's empty promises of power and glory. . . .

By the time he had learned that the Dark Lord did not _share_ power and glory with anyone, it was already too late.

Most Death Eaters considered the mark to be a sign of importance, a symbol of status. He alone had seen what its true meaning was.

A symbol of subservience, a sign of ownership: their lord had branded them like cattle, laid claim to their very _souls_.

He would not allow this to happen to his son. Ever.

He glanced at the photo of their family above the fireplace. His wife, his child. . . .

Despite what other people thought, Lucius Malfoy genuinely cared for his family. He loved his wife, he cared for his child. . . and he would never allow any harm to come to them, Dark Lords be damned!

 _But how do I do this? **How** do I keep them safe?_

He sipped his drink as he contemplated the conversation in the evening. There was no doubt about it, really.

Harry Potter. _He_ was the key.

Lucius had honestly been impressed with the boy. . . no, _young man_. He had often prided himself on reading people extremely well, but he had to admit it he had jumped the gun when he'd met him two years ago.

Harry Potter was truly _nothing_ like his parents.

Mentally, he reviewed everything his son had told him about the Boy-Who-Lived.

He was intelligent: the top student in the school in fact. Resourceful, hard-working, cunning, ambitious. . .

. . . and absolutely ruthless to his enemies. Oh so _ruthless_!

Sometimes, the similarities between him and the Dark Lord were too much.

 _No,_ Lucius thought. The young man was so much more than the Dark Lord could ever be. Even as a child, Lord Voldemort had been a self-interested piece of garbage.

But Harry Potter on the other hand. . .

Harry Potter was _different_. Harry Potter _cared_ for those around him.

The care and concern he'd exhibited during the day towards Narcissa and Draco was not fake. It was genuine. He genuinely cared about his cousin Draco, he genuinely liked his Aunt Narcissa (which explained why Narcissa had taken to him so much, she had marvellous instincts).

Potter _cared_ about the Wizarding world. Potter _cared_ for his friends and allies. That was what truly made him great. . . .

He pondered about the young man for a few moments. Harry Potter was Dumbledore's protégé, and for all intents and purposes his heir; he had an excellent standing among his peers in the school; he was friends with the Longbottom heir, the Bones heiress, the Greengrass sisters. . . . add the despicable Weasleys to the list and his political strength among the Light side was simply staggering.

Then there was the recently released Lord Black, who had no doubt named Harry Potter as his heir. Then there was the Potter name itself: even without a seat on the Wizengamot, the respect for the name of 'Potter' would be enough to influence most of the neutral factions (with Lord Greengrass' aid of course).

Simply put, the Boy-Who-Lived would soon have two-thirds of the Wizengamot eating out of the palm of his hand.

There was no doubt about it. Harry Potter was going to become the lynchpin of British Wizarding politics in the near future.

Then there was the fact that he and Draco were friends. . . .

He smiled to himself. The Malfoys were already wealthy and powerful. Aligning themselves with Harry Potter would make them even _more_ wealthy and powerful.

His son, his _heir_ would be great. The Malfoy name would be even greater than ever before. Their family would rule Wizarding Britain alongside Potter and his allies. . . _their_ allies for generations to come!

All that stood in their way was a deranged Dark Lord.

Which brought him back to the million galleon question: could he do it? Could he really turn his back on the Dark Lord?

He thought about this for a few moments. While it was true that the Dark Lord was frighteningly powerful on his own, without resources of his own to back him up there was little damage he could do.

Wars require gold to finance them. Without the expansive coffers of the old pureblood families, the Dark Lord did not even have a single knut to his name.

Could he sit back and allow the Dark Lord to spend his hard-earned fortune for the sake of his personal vendetta? Could he allow the madman to drag the noble name of Malfoy through the dirt once again for the sake of his childish temper tantrum?

No. No, he could not. . . _would not_ allow the Dark Lord to do this.

Besides, it would be cold day in hell before a Malfoy bowed before the whims of a Gaunt!

 _The Gaunts._ A sneer formed on Lucius' lips. To think that the Dark Lord was spawn of that cursed line. . . .and with a _muggle_ to boot. A muggle!

Although in a way, it did make sense. The Gaunts were known for their lack of mental stability. Whatever else the Dark Lord may be, sane he was not. The innumerable crucios he'd taken in his service were proof of that.

 _Never shall Draco suffer that way as long as I still live. . .  
_

Besides, if it was purity of blood he was talking about, then Harry Potter was far closer to the ideal of the pureblood anyways.

He was the scion of a distinguished pureblood line, his mother (though a mudblood) was one of the most brilliant witches Lucius had ever known, his magical power was greater than that of any other child currently attending Hogwarts. . . .

Yes, he nodded to himself. The young man could become a rallying point for purebloods in the years to come. While not completely amenable to most of their ideals, with time he could be brought around. With enough time, anything was possible.

As long as the status quo was maintained. . . .

 _For that to happen, there is only one thing to be done._

Lucius Malfoy sipped his drink again. There was only one way to completely eliminate the fallout of a war.

Prevent the war from happening in the first place.

He had once been part of the Dark Lord's inner circle. He more than anyone knew the full extent of his plans, the full extent of his resources. . . .

Neutralizing them would be child's play.

As Lucius Malfoy finished his drink, mind already buzzing with various plans, his thoughts went back to the green-eyed young man who had changed the very future of Magical Britain over a cup of tea.

Such a shame really. The Boy-Who-Lived would have made a _wonderful_ Slytherin.

* * *

 **AN: Whew, this took me a hell of a long time to write.  
**

 **I'd really appreciate reviews for this chapter. I've honestly never written Lucius Malfoy before, and I'd really appreciate any feedback at this point.**

 **For those who're wondering about this timeline, this takes place in the summer before fourth year, right before the World Cup final. In this version, Harry obviously managed to get Sirius' name cleared. This will be explained in greater detail in the chapter featuring Sirius' POV.  
**

 **Please do note that I am NOT making fun of people who suffer from abandonment in any way, especially given that it is a very real problem these days.**

 **I am however making fun of Lord Moldyshorts, since I don't believe Rowling's tripe in the 'Half-Blood Prince' that the hard life he's lived justifies the things he's done in any way.**


	6. Gratitude

To say that Hermione Granger merely _liked_ books was like saying that dragons merely _liked_ fire or that nifflers merely _liked_ shiny objects.

In short, it was the understatement of the century.

Hermione Granger lived only for the sake of knowledge (and sugar-free chocolate, but she wasn't going to mention _that_ to anyone). Books were her life, her friends and her confidants. . . .

It helped that she had the brains to back up her thirst for knowledge.

Hermione was a smart girl, and she knew it. This meant that she was able to read and understand books that were _way_ above her age group; and indeed, all those who came into contact with the girl often remarked how she was so much beyond her years.

But sadly, all gifts come with a price.

For Hermione, having a much higher than average IQ meant that she had a great deal of difficulty connecting with her peers. Schoolwork which drove children her age up the wall was a breeze for her, topics which other kids discussed with enthusiasm seemed mundane and childish.

It didn't help that Hermione Granger was not a very attractive little child. Her bushy brown hair and overly large front teeth had long since earned her the unflattering nickname of ' _Beaver'_ from the other kids. Her lack of athleticism and regard for physical exercise only served to isolate her further.

She soon became _that_ kid: the one who everyone willingly approached for help with their studies, but otherwise judiciously ignored; always the last one to be picked out during P.E class, always the last one to be invited to birthday parties, always the last one to be included in group activities, always the one who was simply _tolerated_. . .

An afterthought at best.

Hermione dealt with it the only way she knew how. She buried herself even further into her books, she threw herself even further into her studies; being _good_ was no longer enough for her, she wanted to be _better. . ._ no, she wanted. . . . she _needed_ to be the best. Better than the best!

She refused to be _tolerated_ by anyone!

Besides, it wasn't like she was completely without friends.

Ms Bethany, the young teacher for Classical Literature, was the closest thing to a friend and confidant Hermione had ever had. She, like the other teachers, had noticed Hermione's plight and she, like the other teachers, had tried her best to help her get along with her classmates. . . .

However, she, _unlike_ other teachers, had recognized a losing battle when she saw one. Instead of forcing the issue, or treating Hermione to a lecture of what she was doing wrong, she had chosen to help the little girl in her own way.

As a result, the little girl soon found herself spending long hours with her favorite teacher in the staff room. Ms Bethany (or Ms Beth as she insisted on being called) was extremely knowledgeable on a number of subjects, and actively encouraged Hermione to discuss the various things she'd read with her.

Hermione soon came to treasure the time she spent with her teacher. Finally, there was someone who was willing to interact with her on _her_ level, rather than simply talking to her like she was one of the other kids. Sure this meant that the title of ' _Teacher's Pet_ ' had been added to her rather long list of nicknames. . . but she hardly cared.

Why should she care to be friends with such immature children, when there were people like Ms Beth around?

* * *

Hermione Granger entered the Magical World with a heart filled with awe and wonder.

Magic was real. _Magic was real!_

She could hardly believe her eyes and ears when Professor McGonagall had turned up at her home and revealed the existence of an entirely new _world_. A world where the laws of physics were broken on a daily basis, a world where one's imagination was the limit, a world where _anything_ was possible. . . .

It had been like something out of a fairy tale.

Naturally, she had accepted the invitation to Hogwarts without a second thought. While she knew she would sorely miss Ms Beth, she couldn't help but feel extremely excited at the prospect of entering the magical world.

Her first week in Hogwarts however, did a good job of beating the excitement out of her.

Oh there was nothing wrong with the school itself. The teachers were all nice (except for Professor Snape) and the classes were extremely interesting.

Her social life on the other hand. . . .

She grimaced as she remembered a line she'd read in a book somewhere: "The more things change, the more they stay the same."

No, in this case it wasn't just the same. . . . it was so much worse.

It was bad enough that most of the Wizarding world was prejudiced against muggleborn witches like herself, but she just _had_ to go and earn the moniker of the 'Gryffindor know-it-all'.

In hindsight, quoting her texts verbatim at her classmates might not have been the best way to make a first impression.

But that didn't excuse them for treating her the way they did. She was only trying to help!

As she cried herself to sleep at night, she wondered why people had to be so mean all the time.

* * *

Her father her always told her: "No matter how good you think you are, there will always be someone better."

She had never really understood what that meant.

Until the day she met Harry Potter.

The boy was everything Hermione had ever dreamed of being, and then some. He was intelligent (probably more than even her), popular, kind, a brilliant athlete. . .

. . . . _and so good-looking_ she thought with a blush.

But what impressed her the most was his _confidence_.

Harry Potter was what some books referred to as a "natural born leader". He had a way of carrying himself that inspired respect even amongst his elders. His very presence demanded attention, his every action called for admiration among his teachers and his peers. . .

Despite this, he never let the attention go to his head. In the two months she'd been in the castle, she had never once seen him talk down to anyone (except for that ponce Malfoy, who totally deserved it), never once seen him bully anyone. . . . despite the fact that his status as the Boy-Who-Lived meant that he could easily get away with anything. There simply wasn't a single arrogant bone in his body.

She really couldn't figure that boy out at all. Harry Potter was a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, hidden inside an enigma.

Still, she made sure to stay away from him as much as possible.

After all, there was no reason that the most popular child in school would ever want to befriend a simple bookworm like her. What could she offer him anyways? Her knowledge of the Wizarding world was lesser than his, and he was much better than her at schoolwork (well, the practical part anyways).

Besides, she was pretty sure she had done a good job of freaking him out on the train. Honestly, she had been so childish back then! Rattling off the names of all the books she'd read like some. . . . _show-off_. He was probably _disgusted_ with her.

It was all for the best that she stay out of his way anyways.

She wasn't sure she could take it if Harry Potter were to start _tolerating_ her.

* * *

Hermione had never considered herself a particularly sensitive girl.

But listening to the Boy-Who-Lived's best mate call her "insufferable" and mention her lack of friends in the school was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.

So instead of attending the Halloween feast like she was supposed to, she locked herself in the bathroom and began to cry.

It was definitely _not_ one of her finest moments.

Still, had Hermione Granger been the sort of person who could keep her cool under pressure, she would have remembered that trolls had notoriously poor hearing, and would've used that knowledge to silently escape the bathroom and run for help.

Unfortunately, she was _not_ such a person.

So faced with a twelve-foot tall mountain troll she did the only thing that came to her momentarily paralyzed mind.

She screamed her lungs out.

Again, not one of her finest moments.

She backed into a corner and closed her eyes as the troll lifted its huge club, and waited for the pain that never came.

A few moments later, she cracked open her eyes to see a most amazing sight.

The troll's club was floating in the air right above its head, and growing in size even as she watched. Finally, when it was about four times bigger, it landed with a sickening thud on the head of the dim-witted creature.

As the beast hit the floor with a resounding crash, a cheerful voice spoke up. "Good thing Professor Flitwick taught us that charm today morning, isn't it?"

Hermione stared open mouthed at the grinning Boy-Who-Lived and his sickly-looking red-haired friend standing near the door.

"Hi, Hermione," he waved happily.

* * *

To say that Professor McGonagall was unhappy with the lot of them was like saying that the troll was simply overweight.

 _It's not fair_ Hermione thought. Harry Potter shouldn't be getting shouted at for saving her life! It was her fault that all this happened in the first place. She opened her mouth to lie to her favorite teacher. . . .

. . . only to have her black-haired classmate save her the trouble.

"Professor, there was simply no time for us to inform anybody. When we arrived here, the troll was in the middle of taking a swing at Hermione. Had we been late by even a second, her brains would probably have been splattered all over that wall."

All three teachers, and two students, winced at the rather graphic (but accurate) prediction of events. Headmaster Dumbledore nodded solemnly, "Time is of the essence in situations like these. We should commend Mr Potter for his quick thinking in a time of crisis, Minerva."

"Very well, Albus," McGonagall said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fifty points to Gryffindor Mr Potter, for saving the life of a fellow student."

"Another fifty points for keeping your head in a difficult situation," Dumbledore smiled.

"Another fifty points for such inventive use of the Engorgement charm and Levitation charm, Mr Potter," Charms Master Flitwick squeaked happily.

"Thanks a lot, Professors," Harry said with a smile. "However, I'm afraid I'm going to have to refuse."

Hermione's jaw dropped, an action that was mirrored by the other four.

"May I ask why, Mr Potter?" Dumbledore recovered first.

"I came here to save the life of a friend. I don't need house points for that," Harry shrugged. "Besides, if the rest of the Gryffindors had been more alert, Hermione would never have _been_ in this situation to begin with. I'm not sure if we _deserve_ any points for that."

Hermione gaped at the boy. _One-hundred and fifty points?_ He was _refusing_ one hundred and fifty points?

 _Wait a minute, did he just call me his_ _ **friend**_ _?_

"Well said," Dumbledore beamed proudly at the child. "In that case, ten points each from Gryffindor for. . . ummm. . . "

"' _Being a bunch of oblivious dunderheads'_ is one of Professor Snape's favorites," Harry pointed out helpfully.

"I . . . see," Dumbledore frowned, making a mental note to discuss this later with his Potions Master.

It was a shocked Hermione who was led away to the Hospital Wing by Flitwick, while McGonagall escorted a cheerful Harry and a stunned Ron Weasley back to the dorms.

* * *

After downing a calming draught and being checked over for minor injuries by an irate Madam Pomfrey, Hermione made her way back to the Gryffindor dorms.

The moment she entered a collective hush fell around the common room. Squirming uncomfortably under the collective gaze of all her housemates, Hermione quickly loaded her plate with food. Perhaps she could quietly slip back to her dorms. . .

"Hey Hermione! Over here!"

She jumped in surprise and looked around to see Harry Potter beckoning her over.

"I saved you a seat," he grinned as she made her way over to him.

As soon as she sat down in the vacant armchair Ron Weasley started shovelling his food down at top speed, determinedly avoiding her eyes. As he got up to leave, Harry spoke up in his usual cheerful voice.

"Before I forget, Ron has something he needs to say to you." He looked pointedly at the lanky redhead.

"Erm. . . well. . . I. . . ahem. . . er. . . ."

"Any day now would be good, Ron."

"I. . . . well. . ."

"Ron. . . ." Harry still sounded cheerful, but there was the barest hint of steel in his voice.

Ron Weasley took a deep breath. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. . . . really sorry about what I said back there. And I'm sorry about. . . the whole thing with the troll. . . ."

"It's alright," Hermione said timidly.

"No. . . no it isn't," Ron shook his head vehemently. "Merlin, you. . . you nearly _died_ back there. You nearly died! I shouldn't have said all those stupid things. Bloody hell, you were only trying to help! There was no reason for me to say all that! I. . ." He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

"I was being a prat! A real prat! So yeah. . . I'm sorry, Hermione. I really am."

"It's. . . it's okay." Hermione was honestly taken aback by the honesty in his voice. It was plain to see that he was genuinely shaken up by everything that'd happened. She sat up straighter as she realized something. "I should apologize as well. . . for the way I spoke to you. I shouldn't have acted so. . . so condescending."

"So, we're. . . we're okay?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yes. Yes, we are. . . okay."

"Great," he said with a genuine smile and held out his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Hermione shook it and smiled.

Harry watched him walk away with a smile on his face. "He's a good bloke; a little short-tempered sometimes, but a good bloke."

"I know," Hermione said with a small smile. She looked around to find many students looking at her with sullen expressions, others looked genuinely uncomfortable. "Um. . . Harry, what happened over here?"

"McGonagall happened," the Boy-Who-Lived said around a mouthful of steak. "She _reamed_ into the entire house while you were in the Hospital Wing. Told them how disappointed she was with the lot of them, told them how disgusting it was that it took a couple of _first-years_ to realize that one of them was missing. The way she screamed. . . heck, I don't think I've ever seen anything scarier than that." He finished with a small shudder.

Considering this was coming from a boy who'd just defeated a full-grown mountain troll without even breaking a sweat, Hermione supposed that it indeed must've been terrifying.

"But why are they glaring at _you_?"

"Most of them didn't like the fact that I refused one hundred and fifty points so casually. They felt it would've helped offset the points McGonagall took from them." He smirked at her. "They backed off after I threatened to quit the Quidditch team, though."

"You shouldn't have. . . !" Hermione gasped. While she herself was no fan of the sport, she knew that quitting so close to the first game would certainly mean Gryffindor's defeat.

"I don't appreciate being ganged up on," Harry said, shooting a dark look at their housemates. "Besides, remember what McGonagall said at the Welcoming Feast? The House is supposed to be your family. What sort of a family are we to each other when we don't even _realize_ that one of us is missing during a crisis, huh?" The last part was said a little loudly.

"Well said," Percy Weasley spoke from behind them. "I'm glad to see someone realizes that just because Gryffindor is all about courage and bravery, it doesn't mean that we completely discard the concept of _loyalty_." Several people listening in looked away in shame. "Ms Granger, on behalf of the prefects I apologize for not coming to your aid."

"Oh. . . you don't have to. . ." Hermione said hurriedly. Her head was practically swimming with everything that had happened so far. _Why are so many people apologizing to me? And a **prefect** as well!? _ "You couldn't possibly have known. . ."

"We couldn't have," Percy conceded. "But if one of us had realized that you weren't at the feast, we could've fetched you to the Great Hall, and you'd never have been in that situation to begin with." He sighed tiredly. "If Harry and Ron hadn't acted when they did. . . ."

He reached out to pat the Boy-Who-Lived's shoulder in gratitude. "In the future, if anything happens, make sure to let me know Ms Granger." He nodded and walked away.

The two first-years continued to eat in silence for a few minutes. Then Hermione spoke.

"Um. . . Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"I wanted to ask you. . . .why did you lie to the professors back there?"

He looked at her thoughtfully for a few moments, fork wiggling in his mouth. "When did I lie?"

"Well. . . ." Hermione was really uncomfortable now. "You said that we were. . . _friends_?"

"You mean we're _not_?" He sounded shocked.

"Umm. . ." Hermione had no idea what to say.

"Well. . . we're going to have to fix that, won't we?" He quickly wiped his hands on a napkin and to her surprise, stuck out his right hand.

"Hi, I'm Harry Potter. Want to be friends?" The Boy-Who-Lived said with a grin.

And just like that, Hermione Granger made her first friend.

* * *

"Hermione!"

She looked up in surprise as Neville came racing up the stairs.

"Neville, what's wrong?"

"Harry. . ." he panted. "Harry. . .in. . . hospital wing. . . ."

Hermione started running before he'd even finished.

What was wrong? Why was Harry in the Hospital Wing? He'd barely left the place a month ago after that Dementor attack at the quidditch match! Did he have a relapse? Was he not completely recovered?

 _I knew I shouldn't have let him out of my sight! Honestly!_

She ran into the Hospital Wing and to her surprise, found a perfectly healthy Harry Potter leaning against one of the beds.

"Harry. . . wha?"

"Hi Hermione," he said cheerfully.

"But. . . you. . . Neville. . . said. . . ."

". . . what I asked him to say."

"Harry. . . . what's wrong?"

"With me, nothing. With _you_ however. . . we're about to find out."

"Wha. . . ?" Before she could say another word, Madam Pomfrey appeared and shoved her onto an unoccupied bed, hitting her with a battery of charms.

"What's going on?" Hermione asked the mediwitch.

"Mr Potter asked me to perform a physical on you, since he believed that you weren't in the best of health of late."

"I'm fine," she said stubbornly, shooting a dark look at her friend.

"The results say otherwise, Ms Granger." She straightened up and turned around to the regard the Boy-Who-Lived. "Looks like your suspicions were well founded, Mr Potter."

She tapped a piece of parchment with her wand. "Sleep deprivation, slight malnourishment, high blood pressure. . ." She looked at the green-eyed boy standing across from her. "A few more days and she would have likely collapsed from sheer exhaustion."

"I feel perfectly fine!" Hermione protested, but the other two simply ignored her.

"What I'm curious about," Harry said slowly, "is how she's managing to take two classes at the same time?"

"That's an easy one I'm afraid," Pomfrey said, and she reached out to tug at the golden chain around Hermione's neck, revealing a small hourglass at the end of it.

"A Time Turner," he said softly. "Of course. . ." He fixed Hermione with a piercing glare. "Who cleared it with you: Professor McGonagall or Headmaster Dumbledore?"

"That's. . . that's none of your. . ." Hermione sputtered in outrage, but fell silent at the look on Harry's face.

"Who?" he repeated softly.

Hermione hung her head in defeat. She knew that look in her friend's eyes; there was no reasoning with him when he looked like that. "Professor McGonagall."

The Boy-Who-Lived nodded quietly. "Madam Pomfrey, I shall leave her in your care." He spun on his heel and walked away.

"Do take it easy on her, won't you Mr Potter?" The matron had long since gotten used to the eccentric young Gryffindor.

"I'll try."

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Professor?" Hermione poked her head into the Deputy Headmistress' office.

"Yes, Ms Granger. Come in, please."

Hermione took a seat and carefully regarded her favorite professor. She looked more haggard and tired than usual.

"I assume you know why you are here?"

She glanced at a copy of her medical report on her teacher's desk. "Madam Pomfrey spoke with you?"

"Aye, she did," McGonagall said quietly. "Ms Granger, I'm honestly surprised. Why didn't you come to me about this before?"

"Professor. . . I didn't want to worry you. . ."

"Child, it is my _job_ to worry about you. It's what I'm here for," she said wearily. "Or do you find it. . . difficult to approach me these days?"

"It's not like that, Professor," Hermione said quickly. "I just thought. . . I thought I could handle it. . ."

McGonagall merely chuckled tiredly. "Ms Granger, sometimes I think you're too much of a Gryffindor for your own good."

Hermione blushed at the gentle rebuke. There was silence for a few minutes. "Harry was here yesterday, wasn't he Professor?"

"Aye, he was Ms Granger," she said with a sad smile. "I must say, it has been a long time since I've been chastised by a student in my own office."

Hermione stared at her in horror. Harry had shouted at a _teacher_!?

McGonagall merely smiled fondly as she polished her glasses. "Sometimes I forget. . . for all the boy resembles his father, at heart he is definitely his mother's son. He has without a doubt inherited her intelligence, and her temper."

Hermione was momentarily fascinated by this small piece of information. "What did he say, Professor?"

"Lots of things. But mostly he mentioned that I have been rather. . . derelict in my duty as your Head of House."

"But. . . that's not true," Hermione was horrified that Harry would say something like this.

But McGonagall merely shook her head. "When I met you for the first time Ms Granger, I promised your parents that I would do my best to watch over you. Yet in the past two years, you have placed in mortal peril _twice_ under my watch. What kind of a person does that make me?"

"But. . . he still shouldn't have said that," Hermione said hotly. "You're a teacher. . ."

"Sometimes Ms Granger, it takes those younger and less experienced than us to point out our mistakes; and sometimes, it takes a student to make a teacher realize that they still have lessons to learn." She sighed again, looking older and more forlorn than ever.

"When you came to me with a request to take all those classes, the only thing I saw was a chance to have a Gryffindor earn the highest possible marks in those electives. Gryffindor house rarely gets students as brilliant as you or Mr Potter, you see. I wanted to have a chance to get our house into the record books, to prove that the House of Lions was still capable of competing academically as well as any other house in Hogwarts."

"I can still do it, Professor," Hermione said determinedly. "I can still get the top scores!"

"But at what _cost_ , Ms Granger? Your health? Your mental well-being? Is it fair of me to place such a burden on you simply to satisfy my own pride? Is it fair of me to expect so much from you when I have given you so little?"

"You know I won't let you down, Professor. . . ." she said heatedly. She hated seeing her favorite Professor look so. . . so _defeated_.

"Ms Granger. . . Hermione, you've _never_ let me down child. Ever." McGonagall's eyes looked rather bright now. "You don't _have_ to push yourself needlessly. You don't have to go so far just to take a few classes. Merlin child, you've been manipulating _time_ itself just to take a few extra classes, half of which you don't even need!"

"Do you really wish to tell me that it is _not_ irresponsible of the both of us to have you play around with such dangerous magic, just so you could study muggle studies. . . or, or _divination_? Answer me, Hermione!"

The girl merely hung her head in shame. Put that way, it really was irresponsible of her ( _and_ the Professor) to go around messing with space-time so casually. Her very life could be endangered by a simple mistake with the Time-Turner, to say nothing of the collateral damage she could cause.

She looked up as McGonagall wiped her eyes and glanced at her paperwork. "I'm going to have to insist that you drop muggle studies Ms Granger, since you have no need of the subject as a muggleborn; and it doesn't take the Sight to see that you dislike Divination."

She fondly peered over her spectacles at her favorite student. "With Arithmancy, Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures, you should have a regular schedule. I must now ask you to hand over the Time-Turner."

Hermione smiled sadly as she removed the golden chain from her neck. In a way, she was actually relieved to be free of that burden.

"Oh, and Ms Granger," Hermione paused with her hand on the door. "Please do inform Mr Potter that his detention is with Professor Lupin at seven in the evening."

Hermione smiled as she nodded and walked away. Looks like Harry could get started on the Patronus charm a little early now.

* * *

"Er. . . Hermione. Could I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure, Ron. What is it?"

"In private."

"Oh," Hermione said, leading the way to a more deserted part of the corridor.

Ron stood before her, shifting awkwardly from one foot to another.

"Well?" she snapped impatiently.

"Wangobalwime?"

"Sorry?" she said.

"D'you. . . d'you want to go to the ball with me?" Ron asked. His face was almost as red as his hair.

"Oh", Hermione said, feeling herself going red as well.

 _Why is he asking me? Is it simply because I'm the first girl he saw? Or is he. . .  
_

She shook herself mentally. This was Ron, for heaven's sake! He was probably just asking her because he was too embarrassed to ask anyone else!

 _But what if he isn't. . .  
_

She decided to review the whole situation logically.

Ron wasn't terribly good-looking, but he wasn't too bad on the eyes either. Two years of tireless quidditch training had done wonders for his physique and his confidence. Indeed, there were times when Hermione honestly felt ashamed for blatantly questioning his commitment back in their second year.

While it was true he wasn't one of the brightest boys around, he was by no means an idiot. He actually had a pretty strategic mindset, and was very good at analytical thinking.

His sense of personal hygiene and table manners might be atrocious, but he was still a far cry from the petulant child she'd fought with in her first year.

She decided to try another tactic. Instead of focusing on the boy he was now, she decided to focus on the man he would grow up to be.

She saw a man willing to follow his best friends into danger and confront his worst fears, she saw a man willing to fight for his beliefs, she saw a man willing to rise up and defend the helpless from the darkness...

She decided she rather liked what she saw.

"It's okay. . . if you don't want to, I guess," Ron was growing more uncomfortable by the minute.

"Yes, all right then."

"Wha. . . ?"

"I _said_ , I'll go with you Ron," Hermione said exasperatedly.

"Oh. . . great. Thanks, I guess."

"Well, I'll see you around." She walked away fighting a furious blush.

She honestly wished she wouldn't come to regret this.

When they finally kissed at the end of the ball, she realized she hadn't.

* * *

Hermione made her way to the Room of Requirement, just in time for the first DA meeting of their sixth-year.

In hindsight, forming that duelling club back in their third year was definitely one of her better ideas.

It had started fairly innocently. A number of muggleborn second years had approached Hermione in the library, asking for a few pointers on dealing with some of the more violent pureblood fanatics. Apparently they had heard of her punching Theodore Nott in the face and threatening to hex his bits off, and had hoped if she'd be willing to share any curses she might know.

Hermione had been annoyed initially. Ever since she'd been awarded that Special Award for School Services in her second year, at Harry's insistence (he openly claimed that he'd have never known where to find the Chamber of Secrets if not for her), she had become something of a celebrity among the muggleborn students in the school. "The Muggleborn who helped destroy the ancient monster of Slytherin" was what the people called her.

Then she had an epiphany of sorts.

Hermione approached Harry with the idea of starting a duelling club. She reasoned that since they had a DADA Professor who actually knew his subject for once, the club had a much greater chances of success.

Unfortunately, given his. . . _unique_ circumstances, Professor Lupin was unable to attend the club regularly, and Harry ended up teaching most of the students gathered; which, to be frank, was Hermione's intention all along. The entire school remembered Harry's epic duel with Malfoy back in their second year, where the Boy-Who-Lived had swept the floor with the blond ponce, despite his opponent using borderline dark curses. Harry knew more counter-curses and jinxes than half the seventh years (though he never said where he'd learned them all) and this combined with his cheerful personality made for a rather fantastic teacher.

The DADA scores that year had been the highest Hogwarts had seen in decades.

But Harry didn't stop there. He continued to build the DA (Defense Association) on his own even after Lupin left.

Now, two years later, the DA was the largest sanctioned club running in Hogwarts with over two hundred members!

Officially, it was simply a study group formed by Harry Potter to help students with their scores in DADA.

Unofficially however, the DA became the nerve center for the largest organized movement against Lord Voldemort and his supporters that Hogwarts had ever seen, headed by the Boy-Who-Lived.

Hermione had been the one to suggest the composition of the DA. The team was headed by the Inner Council with eight members, two students representing each house. Each of the members were further divided into teams of two who worked together on different tasks, and reported directly to Harry.

Hermione and Lisa Turpin were in charge of research, Neville and Daphne Greengrass reported the political side of things, Susan Bones and Blaise Zabini handled the news from the Ministry administration, and Terry Boot and Hannah Abbott gathered intelligence from the surprisingly accurate Hogwarts gossip mill.

Then there were the ground teams. One hundred of the school's strongest students, trained specially for combat by Harry himself.

They were divided into five teams, headed by Ron and Ginny Weasley, Tracey Davis, Padma Patil and Luna Lovegood (to the surprise of many).

Ron also doubled as Harry's bodyguard and second-in-command, since in his own words "bloke would forget to eat if he didn't have someone reminding him."

Hermione watched everyone leave after the meeting. Truth be told, she had never truly expected the DA to turn into something like this. She wished that they could've had some more time to enjoy their childhood, but with Voldemort's return they simply didn't have that luxury anymore.

"Harry, do you have a minute?"

"For you, always, Hermione."

She suppressed a smile. No matter what happened, Harry was still Harry. Anyone else in his place would have gotten a swollen head by now because of all the attention coming his way.

Not Harry though. He had always been different.

"I just wanted to talk."

Harry waited until the last member had left the Room before throwing up a powerful privacy ward. "Is this about you-know-what?"

"What? No. . . no, it's not about _that_."

She bit her lip, not knowing how to continue. Then she simply took a deep breath.

"It's just. . . I've been thinking. With everything that's going on. . ."

"What's on your mind Hermione?" he asked patiently.

"Harry, I know you have it all planned out. Voldemort, the Death Eaters, the Ministry. . . you've got it all figured out already. I know you do."

"I guess. . . I just want to know where I fit in all this."

"What do you mean, Hermione?" he asked quietly.

She took another deep breath. "Harry, you know I support you one hundred percent. But. . . I'm not like you and the others, Harry."

"I know about some of the things you've done. . . some of the things you're about to do. And I. . . I don't know if I can do it. Harry. . ."

She had tears in her eyes now. "I can't kill in cold blood, Harry. I can't bring myself to hurt people, even those who deserve it! I. . . I can _die_ for you and the others Harry, but. . ."

"Hermione. . ." her friend said softly. He stood up and pulled her into a brotherly hug. "Shh. . . it's okay. Look at me, Hermione. . . _Hermione_. . ."

She gazed into his bright green eyes. "Hermione, do you know why I chose to put you in charge of the Horcrux research team?"

She shook her head, wiping her eyes. She had honestly been surprised when Harry had asked her to join the team researching horcruxes along with Bill and Fleur.

"There's a reason Dark Magic is banned by most Ministries," he explained patiently. "Dark Magic is addictive, like a drug. Even the nicest of people can end up practicing Dark Magic out of sheer temptation. It takes an iron will, an inner strength to resist the foulest of Dark Magics like horcruxes, Hermione. It takes. . . well, it takes someone like _you_ , really."

He held up a hand to forestall her protests. "You have the strongest principles out of anyone I've ever met Hermione. The most unshakeable moral compass of us all. Your morals, your sense of justice - _these_ are the things that truly make you. . . well you, I guess."

Harry sighed as he sat back in his chair. "You want to know why I always keep you close to me, Hermione? It's not because of your brains. . . just let me finish," he raised his hands to hastily quell her look of consternation. "Your intelligence is only half the reason. The other half, well. . ."

He sighed again, running his hand tiredly over his face. "War is fought on the basis of logic, not emotion. To truly win this war, we need to be as pragmatic as possible."

"But pragmatism is hard when you're emotionally involved in everything; and it's not just me. Neville, Ron, Ginny, Susan. . . we're _all_ emotionally involved in this war with Voldemort. Add to that the fact that we're still teenagers, and well. . ."

"You're worried you may not be able to remain objective all the time," Hermione said quietly.

He smile tiredly at her. "I _know_ we won't be able to stay objective all the time, Hermione. Can you honestly expect Neville to remain objective when he's dealing with Bellatrix Lestrange? Can you honestly expect Susan to remain objective when she's fighting the people who killed her parents?"

"It's one thing to discuss things rationally during a time of peace. It's another thing entirely to hold yourself together when the shit hits the fan. Once the fighting starts, things are definitely going to hell faster than Snape can say ' _dunderhead_ '."

Hermione smiled at the barb against their potions master. "That's where you come in. It'll be up to you to make sure everyone stays in line, Hermione."

He paused for a moment. "It'll be up to you to make sure _I_ stay in line."

"You don't mean that, Harry," Hermione said reassuringly. "You'll be fine."

To her surprise, he merely gave a hollow laugh. "Do you know what my worst fear is, Hermione?" he asked her after a few moments.

She shook her head simply.

"It's not that Voldemort might win somehow: I _know_ he won't. It's not that I might end up losing those closest to me thanks to this war: I _know_ I won't."

"No, my greatest fear is that someday. . . someday I might end up becoming the very best thing I've been fighting against for so long. I'm afraid I might become a Dark Lord, Hermione, or worse: someone like Dumbledore, always sacrificing others for the Greater Good."

"Oh Harry, you don't mean that!" Hermione was shocked that he thought of himself this way. "Harry, you'll _never_ become like them. . ."

"Won't I, Hermione?" His eyes were blazing now. "Do you even _know_ how much power I have right now?"

"If I wanted to I could destroy Fudge's credibility in a _single day_. With Lucius Malfoy's tentative help, I can run roughshod over the entire Wizengamot. In a single day, I can turn the entire Ministry of Magic on its head and install a puppet of my own choosing as Minister. Give me a few years and I can take over this entire country better than even Voldemort ever could."

"Harry, you wouldn't. . . !"

"Power corrupts, Hermione, and absolute power corrupts absolutely." His shoulders sagged now. "I'm afraid that someday that may very well happen to me."

"He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby becomes a monster," Hermione quoted softly. "And if thou gazeth long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee."

Harry smiled wryly at her. "Someday that will happen. Someday I'll end up gazing too long into the abyss; and when that happens," he looked at her, his eyes blazing," when that happens Hermione, _you_ must be the one to stop me. You alone can do it, no one else."

Hermione walked closer to the man she loved like a brother and looked softly into his eyes. "I promise you Harry, as long as I'm by your side I'll never allow that to happen. But should the worst come to pass," she swallowed, her eyes hardening in determination, "should the worst come to pass...then I _will_ stop you, no matter what the cost."

Harry pulled her into a hug, his face nestling into her shoulder. "Thank you," he said quietly.

They stayed that way for a long while. She, more than anyone else, understood what it meant for him to show her this side of him, to open up this way, to finally drop his image of the all-powerful Boy-Who-Lived and finally be vulnerable. . . be human.

It was a mark of how much trust he placed in her that he had openly shared his greatest fears: something he would probably never do with anyone else, not with his godfather, not even with the woman he loved.

Hermione had never been more grateful for anything in her life.

* * *

 **AN: Damn, that was long. Can't believe I wrote this in a single night :)  
**

 **I figured that it was high time I show a more human side of Harry, since he was turning into a little bit of a Marty Sue. And apart from Hermione, there's no one else I can think of who Harry would chose to be so open with.**

 **Harry's confrontation with McGonagall will be explained in more detail in the chapter featuring her.**

 **Special thanks to teedub and alix33 for pointing out mistakes and giving detailed reviews.**


	7. Truth

Rita Skeeter honestly couldn't remember the last time she'd been this excited to come to Hogwarts.

Oh, it didn't have anything to do with being back in her _alma mater_. If anything, Rita actually _hated_ the castle, given how difficult her years as a student had been.

No, she was excited to be at Hogwarts because this was where all the _action_ was!

This year Hogwarts was playing host to the Triwizard Tournament, an archaic magical tournament that had not been held since the last two hundred years, when the death toll had become too high for anyone to consider it worthwhile.

But that wasn't all.

There was a great deal more at Hogwarts than simply the tournament. Foreign students, controversial staff, obsolete old dingbats, and most important of all. . .

. . . Harry _bloody_ Potter.

Rita's hawk-like eyes honed in on the green-eyed teen sitting casually beside the other Hogwarts champion. Like every single reporter in Britain, she had fought tooth and nail for a chance to interview the Boy-Who-Lived when he'd first reappeared at Hogwarts three years ago.

Unfortunately, a certain barmy old Headmaster had gone out of his way to block every single one of her attempts to contact the child. Using (or in Rita's opinion. . . _abusing_ ) his privilege of acting in loco parentis of all muggleborn and muggle-raised students of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore had done everything in his power to ensure that no one in the media ' _interfered'_ with the Boy-Who-Lived's education.

It didn't help that Harry Potter's residence was classified at the highest levels of the Ministry. Even Fudge (with whom Rita had always enjoyed an excellent working relationship) refused to divulge any details, and even _she_ was not bold enough to use her Animagus form to access the Ministry's archives.

The wards around Hogwarts didn't allow her to infiltrate the school, and accosting the Boy-Who-Lived during the odd Hogsmeade visit would only bring her to Dumbledore's attention. . . something she'd much rather avoid.

When Sirius Black had been declared innocent a few months ago, and assumed the status of Harry Potter's magical guardian, Rita had thought she'd finally get to write that award-winning piece she'd been waiting for. After all, having been unjustly imprisoned in Azkaban for twelve years, what kind of man would _not_ be itching to spew some vitriol against the government and the people who'd failed him?

The answer to that was probably. . . Sirius Black. The young Lord Black was notoriously tight-lipped about the whole affair. Any hopes Rita had had of getting a joint interview of the former convict and his godson were quickly dashed.

However, Rita was nothing if not patient. . . and opportunistic.

When Barnabas Cuffe, Chief Editor of the Daily Prophet, had appointed her to cover the Triwizard Tournament, she'd grabbed at that opportunity with both hands. Finally, a chance to get under all those nasty wards, and get her scoop from right under the senile old fool's crooked nose! Her Quick-Quotes quill practically buzzed with excitement.

Her eyes narrowed as she quietly regarded her prey. No one got between Rita Skeeter and her beloved articles. No one!

* * *

"Harry dear, I was wondering if we could have a few words?" She wrapped one painted hand around the boy's shoulders, pulling him aside.

"I'm afraid I've got to get back to my classes, Ms Skeeter," he said with a friendly smile.

"Come now dear," she gave a small fake laugh. "I just want a few quotes from our youngest champion. . . add a little color to the whole thing, you know?"

"I'm afraid I really don't have the time." He sounded genuinely regretful, to Rita's surprise. "However," his face scrunched up in thought, "I've got a Hogsmeade visit coming up next weekend. Perhaps we could meet up there?"

Rita could scarcely believe her ears. The Boy-Who-Lived was actually arranging an _interview_ with her? "That'll be lovely, dear" she said with her brightest smile. "I'll book a private parlor in the Three Broomsticks, shall I? Give us both some privacy." She batted her fake eyelashes seductively.

"All right," he said with a smile. "I'll see you next weekend."

"Lovely," Rita said, and walked away with a jaunty wave and a saucy wink.

She missed the predatory look in the Boy-Who-Lived's eyes as they followed her exit.

* * *

Rita Skeeter waited impatiently in a private room at Hogsmeade's most popular tavern. She was worried that the boy might cancel the interview at the last minute due to nerves.

A small part of her wondered if she might've been better off insisting on an interview at the Wand Weighing ceremony itself. She didn't like giving her interviewees time to prepare their responses.

But if she'd done that, then the coverage of the tournament would've had to take a back seat. The Minister had insisted that the Tournament (and the Ministry in particular) look as good as possible in the paper; not to mention that someone like Harry Potter rated a special issue all on his own.

Luckily, her fears seemed to have been unfounded.

Potter arrived punctually at the prearranged time. After ordering a couple of drinks, Rita got ready for the scoop of her lifetime.

"What is that?" the curious child asked, gesturing at her acid-green quill.

"Nothing to worry about, Harry dear. It's simply a Quick-Quotes quill," she waved his concerns aside.

His lips split in a small grin. "A _Quick-Quotes_ quill, Ms Skeeter? Really?"

His condescending tone caused a small spark of irritation in the reporter. _Who does this boy think he is?_

She forced a smile on her face. "So, Harry. . . what made you decide to enter the Triwizard Tournament?"

The Boy-Who-Lived merely raised an eyebrow. "Headmaster Dumbledore and the other judges already issued a public statement regarding my. . . _forced_ participation in this tournament. My name was illegally entered into the Goblet of Fire. I thought you knew that already, Ms Skeeter."

A muscle in her jaw twitched slightly. "Yes, yes. . . my dear, we've all heard about that. The most _outrageous_ rumors! A Death Eater disguised as a former Auror in Hogwarts? And one long thought dead as well!" She leaned forward excitedly. "Your thoughts?"

"I'm afraid I'm not allowed to say anything about that," he said regretfully. "The matter is still under investigation, from what I've been told."

Rita resisted the urge to ground her teeth in frustration. Why was this boy being so infuriatingly evasive?

"Of course, of course. . . you've looked death in the face before, haven't you? How would you say that's affected you?"

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about," he said smoothly.

And so it went. Rita watched with mounting horror as the story she'd coveted for years seemed to go up in flames before her very eyes. The bloody brat absolutely refused to give a straight answer! He evaded some questions entirely, gave roundabout answers to others, fielded counter-questions. . . and generally went out of his way to be as unhelpful as possible.

To make matters worse, even her beloved Quick-Quotes quill was unable to come to her aid this time. The quill was specially designed to embellish simple statements; it didn't have the capability to twist complex arguments like the ones Potter was using.

Rita finally decided to go straight for the jugular. "Can you remember your parents at all?"

The Boy-Who-Lived's eyes flashed for a brief second, and Rita resisted the urge to smirk. _Finally, a chink in the armor. . ._

"No, Ms Skeeter, I do not."

She pressed relentlessly. "How do you think they'd feel if they knew you were competing in the Triwizard Tournament? Proud? Worried? Angry?"

But Potter didn't seem to hear. His eyes were fixed on the piece of parchment before her.

 _Tears fill those startlingly green eyes as our conversation turns to the parents he can barely remember. . ._

Then without warning, her quill burst into flames.

Rita screamed in shock and fell backwards out of her chair. After spending a few moments groaning on the floor, she quickly scrambled back to her feet and nearly fainted at what she saw.

Her quill. . . her _precious_ Quick-Quotes quill had been reduced to cinders! To add insult to injury, the piece of parchment it'd been scribbling on was also reduced to ashes. All her hard work... _ruined!_

She hastily tried a few reparo charms to at least regain the parchment containing her article, but to no avail. The quill had been a rather powerfully enchanted, and with the parchment being so close to the offending object. . . there was simply no chance to recover _any of it_.

"Whoops," the Boy-Who-Lived said softly. "Looks like we're going to have to do this again sometime." He sighed softly. "Such a shame, Ms Skeeter." His bright green eyes glittered with barely concealed malice.

Rita barely resisted the urge to snarl.

* * *

Rita Skeeter blearily opened her eyes and looked around.

She'd fallen asleep at her desk. Again.

Then again, she had been working on what was possibly the biggest article of her career.

She smirked as she envisioned the headlines for the next day's Prophet: _'Harry Potter – Disturbed and Dangerous.'_

 _Serves the brat right. . ._

After that disastrous interview at the Three Broomsticks, Rita had devoted all of her energies to gather dirt on the Boy-Who-Lived. Taking advantage of the lowered wards around the castle, she had snuck in using her Animagus form and spent almost all of her free time eavesdropping on the brat and his obnoxious friends. She'd even tentatively revealed her secret to some Slytherin students known to hail from well-respected families, like Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott.

The amount of information she'd been able to gather was simply staggering!

Favoritism in joining the Quidditch team, rumors of being a Parselmouth, associating with Dark Creatures, randomly attacking students in the hallways. . .

It seemed that the young Potter had quite a few skeletons in his closet.

Rita had taken a great deal of savage pleasure in penning what was definitely the most venomous article she'd ever written. She'd given the worst possible slant to every single statement from the students and stretched the truth as much as she could.

When she was finished with the boy, the whole country would know him as nothing more than a budding Dark Wizard!

She smiled grimly to herself. In her opinion, the boy deserved every last bit of scorn that would start coming his way after tomorrow.

The nerve of that child! He destroyed her precious quill, then he had the audacity to mock her skills. . . the sheer nerve! So what if she was twisting the story a little? Couldn't he see she was simply doing her job? Nobody likes to read plain facts, dammit! The public wanted _emotion_ , they wanted a _story_. . . . the tragic tale of an orphan doing his best to survive in a cruel world was _exactly_ the kind of image the boy needed!

But that ungrateful brat had gone and ruined everything! He reduced her precious quill to cinders, humiliated her. . .

Wait a minute. How _had_ he destroyed the quill in the first place?

Rita frowned as she tried to recall that day's events. As far as she could remember, the child had kept his hands on top of the table throughout the interview. She had been watching him so closely; there was simply no way he could've drawn his wand without her noticing.

 _Then how in the name of Merlin did he set fire to the quill?_

She vaguely recalled a rumor about the Boy-Who-Lived being able to perform wandless magic.

 _Wandless magic?_ She snorted. Right, as if. . . .

There was simply no way that boy could be that powerful. Right?

She shook her head dismissively. What did it even matter?

As far as Rita was concerned, she could simply fall back on the default answer to such complex problems. . . an answer which appealed to the ignorant Wizarding public anyways.

Dark Magic.

After all, since when did Rita Skeeter start letting a silly thing like _truth_ get in the way of _her_ stories?

She yawned as she made her way over to her bed. She simply _had_ to have a front row seat to all the chaos she'd be causing tomorrow.

"Hello, Ms Skeeter."

* * *

Rita nearly jumped out of her skin. That voice! It couldn't be. . .

She spun around to see a very familiar green-eyed teen sitting in a chair beside her bed.

"You! P-Potter. . . what. . . ?"

She gaped in shock at the Boy-Who-Lived sitting casually in her bedroom, an innocent smile on his face.

"H-how. . . did you. . . ?"

"I let myself in," he said cheerfully.

Rita gaped at the boy. _How in the name of Merlin did he get past my wards? And why didn't my intruder charms go off!?_

"What. . . what do you think you're doing _here_ , Potter?" she exploded finally.

"Well," he said earnestly, "you see. . . I was really excited about the article you were going to write about me. So I thought I'd come over and talk to you about it, since I simply couldn't wait long enough for tomorrow's paper to come out." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a large roll of parchment.

Rita nearly fainted in shock. _He knows!_

Wait a minute. She had owled that article hours ago. _How did the boy get his hands on it?_

"I must say, you've gone off me a bit, haven't you, Ms Skeeter?" he said softly as he perused the article. "' _unstable and possibly dangerous_ ', ' _appears to have a fondness for violence_ ', ' _suspected of being a Parselmouth._ "' He looked up at her, eyes shining with mirth. "Really Ms Skeeter, is that the best you can do?"

Rita bristled in anger. The brat broke into her home, stole her article, and now he had the audacity to question her? She pulled out her wand and pointed it squarely between his bright green eyes.

"I have had _enough_ of you, Potter," her body shook with barely suppressed rage. "Hand over my article and leave immediately. . . and I might just _consider_ not reporting this to the DMLE."

The Boy-Who-Lived merely smiled indulgently at her, as though she were a child making a cute suggestion. "Tell me, Ms Skeeter. . . why are you so obsessed with writing an article about me? What are you _really_ after?"

"Get out!" Rita screeched. She couldn't believe the nerve of this. . . this infernal _child_! _How dare he!_ "Get out right now!"

"Not until you answer my question first," he said quietly. "Why do you persist with this. . . foolishness? Do you have no respect for my privacy?"

"Privacy!" she snorted. " _Privacy?_ Privacy!" She laughed hysterically for a few moments. "Oh you silly, silly child," she said mockingly. "You're a celebrity! You don't _have_ a private life, my dear Harry! You don't have any privacy now. . . nor will you have any privacy ever! Your life is a matter of public record! Everything about you is up for speculation, every little aspect of your life is a source for money and entertainment." She wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. "Now be a good little boy and leave my home. You don't want to be late for tomorrow's classes do you, _boy_?" she said patronizingly.

Potter didn't even flinch at her taunts, though his emerald eyes seemed to be glowing slightly. "I see. I can. . . understand that." Rita looked at him in surprise. "I don't have to _like_ it. . . but I understand."

"What I don't understand, is why you. . . _insist_ on writing these lies about me? If you really want to write a story so badly, why not write the _truth_?"

"The truth?" Rita snorted. "The _truth_?" She shook her head exasperatedly. "Harry, Harry, Harry. . . let me teach you a small lesson about human nature. People don't _care_ for the truth. Do you know why? It's because the truth is _boring!_ "

"People don't pick up the paper in the morning because they want to know about the truth. . . they do it because they want to be _entertained_. They want passion, drama, sensationalism. . . that's why they read the papers every day. They want things they can discuss heatedly over the breakfast table, they want articles that they can argue over with their friends; and my job. . . my job is to make sure that they _get_ their entertainment. It's why I'm here; it's why the Daily Prophet is here."

"So the Daily Prophet exists to tell people what they want to hear, does it?" Potter asked quietly.

She simply stared at him as though he were stupid. "The Prophet exists to _sell_ itself, you foolish child."

Rita waved her hand disdainfully. "The Wizarding public are sheep. They'll read whatever we give them; and you know something else," she smiled coldly at the presumptuous child sitting before her, "if there's one thing that people like more than anything, it's the _fall_ of the beloved hero!"

"So, I believe I've answered all your silly questions. Now do me a favor and GET OUT!" she screamed.

Once again, the Boy-Who-Lived didn't react at all to her yelling. Instead, he simply gazed at her thoughtfully. "You know Ms Skeeter, you might actually have a point there. . . ."

In the blink of an eye, his wand was out and pointed at her. Before she could even react, Rita was hit with a powerful Disarming charm that sent her flying into the wall behind her, her wand ripped out of her hands.

She groaned in pain as the room seemed to slide in and out of focus. As she tried to get up, her arms and legs snapped to her side, sending her crashing back to the floor.

"You don't care about the truth," the Boy-Who-Lived said as he slowly walked towards her. "You don't care about my privacy." He smiled coldly at her, his emerald orbs glowing brightly with power. "I guess I don't have to care about yours either, do I?"

He pointed his wand directly between her eyes. " _Legilimens_."

Rita gave a muffled scream of pain as a violent probe crashed through her meagre occlumency shields. She felt a powerful presence rifle through her memories carelessly, accessing her deepest secrets, digging up her deepest fears. . .

 _She was eleven and she was jealously watching the other children as they flew on their brooms, her own lying untouched. . ._

 _She was thirteen, and her classmates made fun of her old-fashioned clothing. . ._

 _She was fifteen, and she was penning a malicious letter to bring down the most popular girl in school, the first of many. . ._

 _She was nineteen, a new reporter for the Prophet, as she shook hands with Undersecretary Cornelius Fudge for the first time. . ._

Rita gasped in pain as the presence retreated from her brain. Released from the Body Bind, she turned around and vomited all over the floor.

"You slept with Fudge?" Potter asked her incredulously, a mixture of amusement and revulsion in his voice. "You _slept_ with Cornelius Fudge for your first article on the Ministry?" He shuddered in disgust. "Bloody hell, I think I'm going to need to obliviate myself after this. . . .or get some brain bleach."

"You. . . bastard!" Rita gasped, still on her hands and knees. Her head was throbbing with pain. "You. . . utter bastard. . ."

The Boy-Who-Lived merely gave her a cruel smirk. "Hurts, doesn't it? Not so fun when it's _your_ life that's being violated, isn't it?" His bright green eyes cast an eerie glow in the dark.

"What do you want?" Rita sobbed. "Bloody hell, what do you _want_ from me?" she screamed.

" _What do I want?_ " He loomed over her trembling figure. "I want the _truth_ , Ms Skeeter. I want the honest, unvarnished truth. I want to see you publish the truth, and nothing _but_ the truth. Since it's pretty obvious to me that you've never written an honest article in your life, I'm going to tell you _how_."

"From this day forth, every story you write will be about the truth. No more pandering to idiots like Fudge, no more giving the Ministry undeserved publicity, no more character assassinations. . . I want you to write about _real_ issues. Write about the lack of career prospects for muggleborn students, write about the lack of knowledge of the muggle world among the purebloods, lack of rights for werewolves, more part-human friendly laws, heck write about cauldron bottoms. . . I _don't_ care. But you will never _ever_ lift your poison pen ever again!"

He knelt so that he was eye level with the terrified witch. "A new dawn is coming, Ms Skeeter. A new era is about to begin. I fully intend to establish a new order in Wizarding Britain. For too long our world our world has remained in stagnation, for too long we have languished in the Dark ages. . ." He traced his wand gently over her cheekbones. "I will _drag_ Wizarding Britain to glory by the scruff of their necks if I have to. Whether the sheep of this country like it or not, whether they want to or not. . . they _will_ follow me into a new age."

His eyes continued to blaze at her. "You don't want to get in my way, do you, Ms Skeeter?"

The frightened witch merely shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. The very air in the room was awash with magical power. . . _his_ magical power. Her breathing seemed to be getting worse with each passing second.

Just as she was about to pass out, the pressure suddenly lifted. The Boy-Who-Lived smiled at her, patting her cheek gently. "Good, good."

"Now, as far as your story for tomorrow goes," Potter straightened up, suddenly business-like. He flicked his wand, turning her article to ash. Then casually, he removed a new roll of parchment from the inside of his jacket. "I took the liberty of answering a few basic questions for you. Make sure to write it into your story for tomorrow," he gazed in to her eyes, "an _honest_ story, mind you." Rita flinched and nodded rapidly.

"Excellent, I look forward to seeing the Prophet tomorrow. Oh, and if you need any quotes or anything from my friends or my godfather, make sure to run it by me first."

"Here's a little something to make sure you do your job properly," Potter offered her a small envelope. "Go on," he said encouragingly as she hesitated. "It won't bite."

Rita took the proffered envelope with trembling hands and slowly opened it. Her jaw dropped as she held the Gringotts bank draft. It was worth at least six months of her salary!

"As long as you do as I say, I'll see to it that you're well taken care of," he smiled at her pleasantly.

"Well, I gotta get going. Oh, and Ms Skeeter," he turned around slightly, "do be careful not to waltz into the school uninvited. I hear Headmaster Dumbledore has modified the wards again. Apparently, there's a _water beetle_ infestation in the castle." The Boy-Who-Lived looked at her meaningfully. Rita merely swallowed and nodded.

She watched the Boy-Who-Lived walk out of the room, and heard the sound of the front door close shut.

* * *

She breathed a sigh of relief and slumped back against the wall.

In her long career as a journalist, Rita Skeeter had faced death threats and worse before, but this. . . this was probably the most _terrifying_ thing she had ever known.

There was no doubt about it. The Boy-Who-Lived would have killed her. Would have _killed_ her! Just like that! Over a simple article in a newspaper!

This was insane! People shouldn't be allowed to behave like that! It meant she couldn't even write what she wanted to!

And the worst part. . . the worst part was that no one would believe her if she told them that _Harry Potter_ had broken into her home and threatened her. Given her reputation, people would just dismiss it as an outlandish story.

Harry _bloody_ Potter could just kill her, and there was nothing _anyone_ would do about it!

She almost wanted to laugh.

She glanced at the bank draft lying in her lap. The implied threat was clear: as long as she toed the line, she would be taken care of. But if she dared to go against him. . .

Rita shuddered. Knowing him, that demon child wouldn't even _bother_ killing her. . .

He'd do something _far_ worse.

She gathered up the material he'd given her and set about writing a new story for tomorrow's special. She had no idea what her life was going to be from now on.

One thing was for certain, she would never again sleep soundly in her own home.

* * *

 **AN: So yeah. . . as I'm sure you folks have guessed, the fake Moody is caught fairly early in this story. The Tournament will be explained in greater detail in the next chapter.  
**

 **For those of you who stuck with me this far, don't get too put-off if Harry appears a bit of a Gary Stu. He's anything but one. I'm just going to establish the groundwork of all the major characters (not my fault there're so many) before I tackle Harry's back-story.**

 **Special thanks to Kairan1979 for faithfully reviewing every single chapter so far.**


	8. Pride and Prejudice - I

Fleur Delacour was in a bad mood tonight.

Why in the name of Merlin did this Tournament had to be held in this. . . this _dégueulasse_ excuse of a country!?

She hated everything about England. She hated the food, she hated the weather, she hated the haughty accent of their language. . . .

She hated the fact that as far as these people were concerned, she was an _inferior_.

Wizarding Britain's disdain for anything part-human was well known to the International community. It was no secret that the entire British Ministry of Magic was heavily monopolized by the purebloods; so much so that not only did first generation witches and wizards (or _muggleborn_ , as these pigs like to call them) have minimal chances of working for their government, they were actively discouraged from finding employment in any and all spheres of Wizarding society.

And as for their attitudes for people with mixed heritage like herself, the less said the better.

Fleur scowled as she remembered her first visit to this country of degenerates when she was eleven. She remembered how those disgusting nobles had flocked to lick her Papa's shoes because of his status, while completely ignoring her Maman simply because she was a half-Veela. She also remembered, rather vividly, the snide comments that had been passed about her, even though she had simply been a child back then.

Her talent meant nothing, her father's standing in the French Ministry meant nothing, the fact that she was one of the most intelligent students at her school meant nothing. . .

As far as these _cochons_ were concerned, she was had no more worth than a mere beast!

Her scowl deepened as she glanced around the Great Hall. She had barely been here an hour and already the behavior of the male students was beginning to get on her nerves. The female students weren't exactly helping either, shooting her dark looks, as if it was _her_ fault their boyfriends were such weak-minded fools!

She sighed as she stabbed her spoon into a bowl of pudding. Why had she agreed to this madness again? There was nothing of interest to her in this _maudit_ place.

She glanced around the hall once again, her eyes coming to rest on a black-haired green-eyed boy sitting at the table with red and gold banners.

Harry Potter.

Fleur had to admit that, like the rest of the Wizarding world, she was rather curious about the Boy-Who-Lived. The boy's sudden reappearance three years ago had set the tabloids ablaze with speculation and wild gossip. Where had he been all these years? Who had raised him? What sort of power did he possess?

Unfortunately, all these questions had remained unanswered. The Boy-Who-Lived was notoriously media-shy, and was rarely (if ever) known to make public appearances. The only article Fleur remembered reading about him was from two months ago, something about his godfather being released from his unjust imprisonment.

 _Typical English. Throwing a man into prison without a trial. . . .  
_

A wicked thought entered her head. It was a well-known fact that the English were rather sensitive about appearances.

 _How would they react to their precious Boy-Who-Lived making a fool out of himself due to a Veela's allure?_

Smirking slightly, she got up and made her way to the other table.

"Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?" she said, allowing a small amount of her allure to leak into her voice.

The effect was immediate. Every single male in a ten foot radius went purple, their eyes taking on a slightly glazed look.

Every single male. . . except for her target.

"Yeah, have it," said Harry Potter, pushing the dish towards her.

Fleur blinked in shock. He wasn't affected by _her_? No. . . no, it was not possible.

She just had to try harder.

"You 'ave finished wiz it?" she asked with a fake smile, her allure turned up to full blast. By this point, every single male (and even a few females) in the vicinity had their jaws wide open, drooling mindlessly.

But the boy. . . the _infuriating_ boy didn't even twitch. He simply met her eyes and smiled. "Yeah. You can have it."

Not knowing what to think, Fleur simply picked up the dish and walked back to her table.

Was the boy immune to her Veela allure? No. . . no that was impossible. Only the strongest of wizards, magically and mentally, could resist the allure to that degree. Her Papa was one of them. Could this fourteen year old wizard truly have _that_ kind of power?

 _Or perhaps. . . he was interested in men?_

 _Yes_ , she thought. That made sense. Harry Potter was gay. No wonder her allure had no effect on him.

Such a shame really. She had looked forward to some evening entertainment.

* * *

Fleur seethed in silent rage at the scene before her.

Trust the English to botch up even a simple thing like pulling names out of a _stupide_ drinking cup!

Somehow the Boy-Who-Lived had managed to enter himself into the thrice-damned competition as a fourth champion.

A _fourth_ champion? In a _Tri_ wizard Tournament? Fleur would have laughed if she hadn't been so angry. Really, could these people not even rig a competition properly!?

Fleur had railed at the injustice of this situation. This little boy should not have been able to _enter_ his name into the Goblet, let alone be chosen as a champion! The age limit had been agreed upon _months_ ago; it was the whole reason Beauxbatons had specifically brought along only their Seventh year students for participation. How _dare_ they. . .

"Enough."

The word was spoken softly, but immediately the entire room full of squabbling adults fell silent as they turned to acknowledge the Boy-Who-Lived, who had been standing quietly all this time.

"I have had _enough_ of this drama," he spoke in that same calm tone of voice. Madame Maxine looked enraged that a mere student had interrupted them so rudely, but relaxed slightly when she realized that his words weren't aimed at her. Harry Potter was looking at the arguing pair of Karkaroff and Moody with a cold expression on his face.

"Professor Dumbledore, can I take a look at that?" he asked, his eyes never leaving the two Professor's faces.

Dumbledore silently passed him the piece of parchment, which he looked at a few moments before snorting slightly. "This bloody thing isn't even written in my handwriting!"

"Mr Potter!" The Deputy Headmistress yelped. "Language!"

The Boy-Who-Lived simply ignored her. "Headmaster Karkaroff, did you enter my name in the Goblet?"

The Durmstrang Headmaster clutched his furs and drew himself up in outrage. "How dare you. . . !"

"Cut the crap Karkaroff, I _know_ what you are," Potter said sharply. "Did you, or did you _not_ , put my name in the Goblet of Fire?"

Karkaroff paled slightly, and sputtered for a few moments. Eventually, he managed to croak out a weak "No".

Fleur glanced at Viktor Krum to see how he would react to the disrespect being shown to his headmaster. To her surprise, he actually looked interested and even slightly entertained.

"Professor," Potter ignored the glares being shot at him by the others. "Did _you_ put my name in the Goblet?"

The Hogwarts DADA teacher blinked in shock at this question being addressed to him.

"Harry," Dumbledore said chidingly. "You cannot possibly be implying. . . ."

"Professor Moody just came up with a very _interesting_ theory regarding how my name was entered into the Goblet," Potter said quietly. "A very interesting theory indeed." His eyes flashed briefly. "Almost as if you had _been_ there yourself, _Professor_."

"Potter," Moody barked in irritation. "I don't know what you're up to. . . ."

It happened so fast that Fleur didn't even see it. Potter's wand was out in a flash, and a veritable barrage of spells hit the older man, sending him flying into the opposite wall.

Ignoring the cries of shock and outrage, the Boy-Who-Lived calmly walked over to the fallen wizard and stuck his hands into his robes. A few seconds later he removed a hip flask, sniffed its contents and turned it over. A thick glutinous liquid splattered onto the floor.

"Polyjuice potion," Potter stated. "I'd recognize that stench anywhere."

He turned back to the rest, some of whom were holding their wands at the ready, and threw the flask at the greasy-haired Hogwarts professor. The man caught it in surprise, and quickly checked its contents. He nodded to a pale looking Dumbledore, possibly confirming the Boy-Who-Lived's hypothesis.

"I expect the DMLE to be brought in for a full investigation, Professor Dumbledore," Potter said quietly, though his eyes were still blazing. "I also need to contact my godfather."

Dumbledore nodded quietly and gestured for them to move to his office, stunning and binding the unconscious imposter on the way.

Fleur watched this whole drama unfold in silent shock.

 _Are all Englishmen this crazy? Or is it just this school?_

* * *

The next day's activities were all a blur.

From what Fleur could make out, the imposter from last night had been a supporter of He-who-must-not-be-named, polyjuiced to look like one of the professors. Initial investigations had revealed that the _fils de salope_ had been responsible for entering Harry Potter's name into the Goblet of Fire, though the motive behind it was not known.

Dumbledore then went on to say that, in the interest of fair play, the Boy-Who-Lived was not going to be representing Hogwarts School but would instead compete as an independent candidate. Then Potter got to his feet and made a small speech about how Cedric Diggory was the true Hogwarts Champion, and that the only reason he was competing was to avoid the loss of his magic to the Goblet due to the binding magical contract.

This statement was met with thunderous applause from the house with yellow and black colors (Hubblebuff or something) which Diggory came from. Fleur had to grudgingly admit that the little boy was rather good at playing the crowds. Not only had he won the support of one-fourth of the entire school, but he had actually come out of this situation looking much better than either the Headmaster or the Ministry organizers. Had something like this happened to _her_ in Beauxbatons, the entire school would have ganged up to lynch her, innocent or not.

Perhaps there was more to the Boy-Who-Lived than met the eye.

After that day, she began to observe him more carefully, probing for weaknesses.

She found out that he was pretty much a normal boy. He got along with everyone in the school, though there was a small group of people he was particularly close to. His friends weren't really anything special though: a chubby black haired boy, a bushy haired bookworm, a redhead with a bottomless stomach. . . .

But it was the last member of the group that caught her eye.

She was a small girl with dirty blond hair, an underclassman by the look of her. She wore radishes for earrings and had rather large protuberant eyes that gave her a permanent surprised look. She also had a rather annoying tendency to follow the Boy-Who-Lived around like a lost little puppy wherever he went.

Fleur sneered at that. She had no idea that the Boy-Who-Lived liked his fan girls so young!

Still, she couldn't help but feel slightly curious about the whole thing.

"Cedric," she said to the Hogwarts champion, who was possibly the only boy in the castle she got along with (it helped that he was easy on the eyes and quite resistant to her allure). " 'Oo is zat girl?"

"Hmm. . . oh that's Luna. Luna Lovegood. Ravenclaw, third-year. Why?"

"Nozzing," she said quickly. "I wanted to know. . . why does she follow Harry Potter zat way?"

"She's his friend," the handsome boy looked at her with a puzzled frown.

" _Non_. . . what I'm trying to say is. . . she is rather," Fleur cast around for a word to best describe her opinion of the girl, " _strange. . ._ yes?"

Cedric laughed slightly. "Yeah, I suppose you could say that."

"Is she. . . ?" Fleur moved her finger around in small circles beside her forehead.

Cedric suddenly looked rather uncomfortable. "Fleur. . . er. . . its probably best that you don't say that out aloud."

"Why?" she asked with a puzzled frown.

"What he's trying to say," interjected Cho Chang (Cedric's girlfriend, who had joined them at the table), "is that Harry is rather protective about her; and if he heard you saying such impolite things about her, well. . ." she trailed off.

"Oh?" Fleur arched an eyebrow imperiously at the veiled threat. "What is ze worst 'e could do?"

The girl sitting beside her, Hannah Abbott, snorted loudly. "Yeah, that's what Marietta and the others said. Look how _that_ turned out!"

"What do you mean?" Fleur was genuinely curious now.

Susan Bones, sitting on Chang's other side, spoke up. "When Luna first came into Hogwarts, she had a little bit of. . . well trouble with her dorm-mates." She gave the Asian girl an apologetic look.

But Chang merely shook her head. "It's alright, Susan, you can say it." She took a deep breath and looked the quarter-veela in the eye. "She was being bullied. . . badly by some of the other girls. Most of us. . . we didn't know, okay? I mean, we all thought they were simply having some fun with her...harmless ragging you know? We had no idea; no idea how far they took things." She sighed softly. "My _former_ friend Marietta Edgecombe," she spat, "was the ringleader of that little gang. They stole her possessions, misplaced her homework. . . heck, they even locked her out of the dorms a couple of nights in just her pajamas."

Fleur grimaced in disgust. She was only too familiar with what Chang was describing. She had seen it plenty of times at her own school. Outright harassment under the guise of ' _harmless fun_ '. Thankfully, she herself had never faced such treatment, partly due to her father's position in the Ministry and partly due to her own magical power. Others weren't so fortunate.

"Anyways," Chang continued. "Harry found her wandering the corridors one night, barefoot and barely wearing anything. He took her to the Hospital Wing and went to speak with Professor Flitwick, our Head of House. Unfortunately, several of the girls had rather high ranking Ministry officials for parents. . .and well, they just railroaded him. It didn't help that Luna's family has a reputation for their rather. . . _eccentric_ tendencies. They took the matter to the Board of Governors and they claimed that her word alone was not sufficient to warrant any punishment."

"So they got away?" Fleur was indignant.

"As if," Hannah Abbott said with a smirk. "When Harry found out, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He sent out notes to each of the girls and asked them to meet him in an abandoned classroom after classes were over."

"Nobody knows what he said or did. But later that night, all eight of the girls ran to our head of house and confessed everything." Chang shook her head bemusedly. "Marietta was practically hysterical. She grabbed all of her things and left the castle with her mother before dinner had even started, along with two of her cronies. Last I heard, they're being home-schooled and absolutely refuse to come anywhere _near_ the castle."

Fleur felt her gut clench slightly. "Did 'e. . .?"

"Oh, it's not like that," Susan Bones said, quickly catching on to her unspoken implication. "Harry would _never_ to do something like that to any girl, no matter what she might've done. The most he must've done was had a few strong words with them."

"A few strong words?" Fleur repeated in disbelief. _No way would a few words cause that kind of reaction. . .  
_

"Harry can be rather forceful sometimes," Cedric grinned. "Like Cho said, he's very protective of all his friends; and he doesn't take it too well when someone tries to hurt them, or any other innocent people for that matter. He can be one hell of a scary bloke when he's pissed off, trust me."

"He looks after his own, and doesn't let anyone get away with messing with his friends. At the same time, he won't hesitate to stand up for other people either," Abbott nodded.

"It's why we all consider him an honorary Hufflepuff," Bones said with a hint of pride in her voice.

Fleur glanced at the Boy-Who-Lived sitting beside Lovegood at the Gryffindor table. She couldn't help but feel a small amount of respect at the sight of a boy willing to stand up for those around him.

There was _definitely_ a whole lot more to the Boy-Who-Lived than what met the eye.

* * *

Fleur cursed the organizers of the tournament for the thousandth time.

Dragons! _Merde_ , they brought dragons for the First task! Were these people insane?

And that Hungarian Horntail! Which one of those. . . those _fils de salope_ had decided to bring that terrible beast here? If she ever got her hands on them. . .

Fleur bit her lip in nervousness as she realized that the youngest champion had had the bad luck to end up with that monster. As much as she disliked the Boy-Who-Lived, she wouldn't wish the Horntail on him. . . or anyone else for that matter. It was one of the most dangerous breed of dragons in the world, for Merlin's sake!

She prayed that the rumors regarding Harry Potter's supposed magical prowess were more than just hot air, or the tournament would just end up seeing its first casualty.

Fleur watched with some trepidation as the Boy-Who-Lived walked into the arena and stood facing the dragon. The massive beast, a good ten feet longer than any of its other counterparts, unfurled its wings and roared at the intruder. The sight of the giant, black scaly lizard rearing up in the middle of the arena made her feel sick to her stomach.

That was when the show started.

Even as Fleur watched, the air around the boy started to crackle with magical energy and the dirt around his feet started to levitate slightly.

It took her a few minutes to realize that it was Potter who was causing that to happen.

She stared open-mouthed at the most incredible display of raw magical power she had ever seen! The Boy-Who-Lived seemed to standing in the middle of a small storm, as the dirt and stones of the arena began swirling around his feet. His bright green eyes glowed with barely restrained power, and a light green aura surrounded his body.

And the pressure. . . his magical aura was causing the very air in the arena to become heavier. Even the dragon could feel it, as it began to flap its leathery wings, obviously discomfited by the power of his foe.

Then suddenly, the display of power stopped, and Potter's glowing eyes went back to their normal green color. The boy raised his wand, and Fleur watched with bated breath for the spell that he was going to use.

" _Accio!_ "

Fleur blinked. A summoning charm!? And why was his wand pointed towards the forest?

The rest of the spectators seemed just as confused as she was, judging by their muttering. Suddenly, someone screamed.

Fleur watched with no small amount of surprise as a giant spider the size of a small horse crashed through the trees and landed at Potter's feet. A powerful stunning spell temporarily blinded them and the unconscious spider was quickly encased in ropes.

Grinning, Potter turned to face the dragon. With exaggerated slowness, he pointed at the golden egg, then at himself, then he pointed at the bound spider and then at the dragon.

The implication was clear. _Give me the egg, and I give you a tasty spider._

The Horntail, to everyone's surprise, seemed to consider it a few moments, and then shook its head.

The Boy-Who-Lived looked indignant. He raised his hand and put up two fingers.

Again, the beast shook its head.

"What is 'e doing?" Fleur murmured to herself in shock.

"I do believe," said Viktor Krum slowly. "He is trying to. . . how do you say. . . _negotiate_ with the dragon."

She stared open mouthed at the quidditch star, and back again at the strange spectacle.

Now Potter had five fingers in the air. "Final offer," he shouted, glaring at the dragon.

The Horntail tilted its head to the side for a few moments, as if in thought, and then nodded.

Harry Potter smiled. Four quick summoning charms, followed by four quick stunners and four quick ropes, and there was an assortment of five bound spiders laid out before the dragon.

The dragon in turn gently picked up the golden egg from its clutch of real eggs, and spat it in the direction of the teenage wizard. It thudded to a stop near his feet.

The Boy-Who-Lived picked up his prize and walked away, waving cheerfully at the Horntail. "Pleasure doing business with ya."

Some of the spectators fainted in shock when the Horntail waved back with its tail.

* * *

Fleur Delacour stared at the newspaper article outlining the First task.

" _Boy-Who-Lived-to be a dragon tamer_ "

She snorted slightly. Typical English wizards! Didn't even bother to mention anything about the other champions' performances. Not in more than a single paragraph anyway. They even managed to spell her name wrong!

Then again. . . . yesterday had been quite the spectacle.

She rubbed her eyes tiredly. _Merde_ , if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, she never would've believed it!

How in the name of Merlin did Harry Potter _do_ that?

No. . . the how wasn't relevant. Not really. Fleur was more concerned about the _why_.

From the small display that the Boy-Who-Lived had made in the beginning of the task, it was clear that he had enough magical power to beat the dragon. He might've even succeeded in incapacitating it with a little bit of effort.

Then why hadn't he?

Fleur remembered one of her Papa's favorite sayings: " _Les apparences peuvent être trompeuses."_ It was clear by now that there was a lot more to Potter than met the eye. But what could he have gained by. . .

Then it hit her. _Merde_ , she was such a fool!

The Boy-Who-Lived had never _intended_ to use powerful magic to defeat the dragon in the first place! That whole display at the beginning of the task had simply been a ploy to assert his dominance on the field. He knew the dragon, however intelligent, would never deign to bargain with him the way it had. So he had put up a little show. It was a way of appealing to the dragon's most primal instincts. _See how powerful I am, how easily I can crush you if I wanted to._

Fleur also had a sneaking suspicion that that message wasn't merely directed at the Horntail.

The First task had, among its spectators, some of the most powerful and influential witches and wizards from the British, French and Bulgarian ministries. It seemed obvious in hindsight that the Boy-Who-Lived would use the situation to gain as much political capital as possible; and what better way to do that than to show off his magical power.

There was a reason Albus Dumbledore was so respected and feared in the international magical community. For all the noise they made about blood purity and magical ancestry, if there was one thing that the Wizarding people respected, it was magical power. Sheer overwhelming magical power. It was why someone like Dumbledore, who came from a rather minor pureblood house, carried so much influence in international circles.

Blood meant little, money meant little, name meant little. . . not when you had _that_ kind of power at your fingertips.

Fleur had to admit that her grudging admiration for the Boy-Who-Lived had merely grown. With a single act, he had cemented his reputation as the next big thing in Magical Europe. He has shown the international Wizarding community that he wasn't just some empty-headed English celebrity, he was the _real deal;_ and he had done so without giving away a single one of his secrets.

He knew that every single person sitting in that crowd, including the champions, would be watching him closely. . . looking for a sign of some sort of weakness. So he deliberately used only the simplest of spells, and still managed to walk away with the highest points for the task.

The crowd got their money's worth, the Ministry got the publicity they wanted, Potter kept his secrets. . . everyone went home happy.

Brilliant. Utterly brilliant!

Despite all that, Fleur wasn't fooled in the slightest. She knew (just like Krum did) that summoning such large magical creatures from miles away, and then subduing them with a simple stunner took a _huge_ amount of magical power. Even if Harry Potter didn't know any spells above his own year (which she found extremely unlikely), the sheer power behind those spells put him in a different league altogether.

One thing was for certain, she would never make the mistake of calling him a little boy ever again.

* * *

Christmas at Hogwarts castle was the talk of the entire country. The traditional Yule Ball was held with such pomp and splendor that it brightened up even the dullest of spirits.

Unfortunately, Fleur Delacour was in anything but a bright mood.

Her whole Christmas had been a disaster. . . and it was all _his_ fault!

Fleur glared across the hall at the Boy-Who-Lived-to-be-a-nuisance. That. . . that _imbécile_ had the audacity to walk up to her a week before the ball and ask her best friend. In front of _her_! He actually ignored a quarter-Veela and asked a completely ordinary girl to the ball in front of the entire Beauxbatons contingent!

She had never been so insulted in all her life!

To make matters worse, Fleur had been so deep in shock after being snubbed like that, that she hadn't even paid attention to the next boy who came up to invite her, and promptly said yes. That's how she had ended up with Roger-'i-can't-find-my-mouth-with-my-fork'-Davies.

To say that she was in a foul mood would be an understatement.

Fleur spent the entire evening doing her best to needle the Boy-Who-Lived. She even went to the extent of criticizing his beloved school in front him. But the infernal boy merely laughed at her. . . .as if she were making a very funny joke! The sheer nerve!

 _Ce n'est pas juste!_ She had really wanted to be escorted to the ball by Harry Potter. She had even been prepared to ask him herself if he opted to wait till the last moment. But then he had to go and pull something like that.

She really wanted to hex someone very badly. . . and judging by how Davies was trying to feel her up so much, she had no doubt who it was going to be.

"Mademoiselle Delacour?"

Resisting the urge to snarl, she turned around to face the green-eyed teenager standing behind her.

" _Oui_ , Monsieur Potter?" she said, putting on her most haughty look.

The Boy-Who-Lived merely smiled and extended one hand politely. "May I have the pleasure of this dance with you?"

For a moment she was sorely tempted to tell the boy to get lost (with some colorful French expletives thrown in) but then her eyes caught sight of his date sitting at a nearby table.

Monique was one of her oldest friends. A rather plain looking but intelligent girl, she had never once complained of being in Fleur's shadow, like so many other girls at her school were known to have. Tonight, she looked happier than Fleur ever remembered as she excitedly chattered with the others about dancing with the Boy-Who-Lived.

What right did Fleur have of running her friend's evening? What right did she have to pout like a little girl, when one of her closest friends was so happy? As a friend, should she not be happy that Harry Potter was treating Monique so well?

Besides, Potter was being rather polite about asking her; and the fact that he chose to take someone like Monique, when he could've had any girl in the castle, did say something good about his character. . .

"Oui, Monsieur Potter. You may."

As Fleur took to the dance floor with the Boy-Who-Lived, she couldn't help but feel her spirits lift slightly.

Perhaps she wouldn't need to hex Davies after all.

* * *

"Gabrielle!"

Ignoring the mediwitch healing the cuts on her arms from the grindylows, Fleur raced forward to the edge of the lake and pulled her little sister into her arms.

" _Merci. . . oh Gabrielle, vous êtes en sécurité. . . Merci. . ."_ she sobbed, clutching the shivering child to her chest.

Madam Pomfrey rushed over to them, wrapping blankets around the child, Harry Potter and a bemused looking Luna Lovegood. Potter immediately shrugged off his own blanket and wrapped it around the younger Delacour's body.

Fleur looked up to express her gratitude to her sister's savior and immediately blanched.

The Boy-Who-Lived didn't look upset; no, he looked like he'd bypassed upset a long time ago. His emerald eyes were alight with murderous rage.

He stalked over to the judges table and bellowed. "Is someone going to explain to me just WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE!?"

Even without a _sonorous_ charm, Harry Potter's voice carried across the makeshift arena. All chattering among the spectators stopped as everyone turned to regard the judge's table with interest.

"Whose bright idea was it to stick people under the lake in the middle of freaking _February_?" he spat. "Professor Dumbledore, did you know about this?" He shot his headmaster a piercing look.

"Believe me Harry, I would never have allowed this travesty to occur had I been aware," the old warlock looked extremely upset. "Madame Maxime and I were at the French Magical Embassy last night on official business. By the time we arrived this morning, the hostages were already under the lake."

Harry looked at the other three judges incredulously. "Are you telling me that all four of them have been under the lake since _last night_? And you didn't even bother to inform their _teachers_? What the hell, did you guys kidnap them from their dorms or something?"

Horrified whispers broke out among the spectators. Judging from the fact that all four hostages were in their nightclothes, it seemed that the Boy-Who-Lived's insinuation was not that far off the mark.

"Now see here," blustered Percy Weasley. "You can't speak that way to the judges. . . ."

"Shut it, Weatherby! Or I'll stick you under the lake myself! See if anyone misses you enough to bother looking," Harry practically snarled.

Percy went pale and backed away. Others however, weren't so smart.

Karkaroff clutched his furs and drew himself up to his full height. "We followed the charter to the letter: the rules clearly state that any decisions on the task require only the consent of three of the five judges." He smiled nastily at the Boy-Who-Lived. "As a champion, you have no right to. . ."

"He is right."

Viktor Krum walked forward to stand next to the Boy-Who-Lived. "Harry is right. You should not haff used people for this task at all."

"Viktor!" Karkaroff hissed, clearly enraged.

Krum merely scowled at him. "When I entered the tournament, I agreed to risk my life for glory and honor. _My_ life. . . not that of the ones I love."

Daphne Greengrass, his hostage, shot him a proud look.

"Viktor's right," Cedric stepped forward. "There was absolutely no need to use people for this task."

"But. . . . but the riddle said," Bagman sputtered.

"That you'll take ' _what_ ' we'll sorely miss. Not ' _who'_ , but ' _what'_. You could've taken our broomsticks and be done with it," Cedric correctly pointed out.

"To top it all off, you didn't even have the courtesy to inform their teachers or their guardians about it," Harry spat.

Bagman actually wet himself.

But the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't done yet. "And if that wasn't enough, you actually had the _nerve_ to use a child. . . an _eight year old child_ as a bloody hostage!"

Bagman was whimpering now. Karkaroff however, didn't seem to be cured of his foot-in-mouth syndrome.

"Bah, what does that even matter?" he waved his hand dismissively. "The girl is after all a. . . ." he paused, realizing belatedly what he had nearly said.

"A what, Headmaster Karkaroff?" Harry said quietly.

Nearly every adult in the vicinity, and every single student, was glaring openly at the Durmstrang headmaster with a mixture of anger and revulsion. His unspoken implication was quite clear. Dumbledore looked angrier than ever, Maxime looked like she wanted to throttle him, and Fleur. . . had she not been busy comforting her little sister, Fleur would probably have started throwing fireballs at the _bâtard_.

She was never more thankful that little Gabrielle couldn't understand much English yet.

"She's a _what_ , Headmaster?" the Boy-Who-Lived repeated, advancing slowly on the former Death Eater. "Quarter-Veela? Part-human? Go on, Headmaster say it. I _dare_ you."

His voice was calm and level, but his eyes were burning bright with barely leashed power. Just as it looked like he was about to pull out his wand and start hexing, Dumbledore stepped forward and put a firm hand on his shoulder. A few whispered words and Harry Potter was back in control, to the relief of many, and to the disappointment of quite a few.

The combined glares of an enraged Harry Potter, an upset Dumbledore and an incensed half-giantess proved too much for Bagman however, and he promptly passed out.

* * *

"Monsieur Potter? Could I 'ave a word?"

"Certainly, Mademoiselle Delacour."

Fleur led him away to a more secluded area near the Beauxbatons carriage. Turning around to face the Boy-Who-Lived, she took a deep breath.

 _I can do this. . .  
_

"I wanted to zank you for saving my sister's life. . . and I. . . wanted to apologize as well."

"Oh. Well. . . I can understand the thanks, but what are you apologizing for?"

"I 'ave not been on my best be'avior while dealing with you, Monsieur Potter. I 'ave. . . I 'ave not had a very great opinion of you since ze first time we met; and I 'ave made no secret of it. It was not fair of me to treat you zis way and I 'ope. . . I 'ope that you will forgive me."

She cursed herself for tripping over her words like this. How pathetic she must sound, unable to make even a proper apology? Then again, she had never actually apologized to anyone in her life.

 _Have I really been so arrogant all this time?_

"It's alright, I get it."

She blinked in surprise.

The Boy-Who-Lived merely grinned at her. "I'll admit that ' _little boy_ ' comment stung a bit. But it's fine, really. Believe it or not I know what the people in Wizarding England are like better than anyone."

He crossed his arms, gazing out at the majestic abraxan horses near the carriage. "Do you know why people call me the Boy-Who-Lived?"

Fleur stared at him. "Oui, because you defeated He-who-must-not-be-named. . . ."

"Not quite," he chuckled. "I was just a one year old baby when Voldemort attacked me; no way did _I_ defeat him. No, the one who actually defeated him was my mother – Lily Potter."

"My mother was one of the most gifted witches of her time. She found some kind of a ritual that gave me temporary protection against the killing curse, only the ritual required the life force of a person to power it. So my mother sacrificed _herself_ to ensure that Voldemort wouldn't be able to hurt me in any way. She used her own death to give me the ultimate protection from the killing curse."

Fleur was confused now. "Then why did zey not give 'er ze credit?"

His bright green eyes looked into her blue ones. "Because she was a Muggleborn."

Her eyes widened in sudden understanding.

"I see you've figured it out," he nodded approvingly. "The people didn't want to accept that a muggleborn witch managed to defeat one of the strongest Dark Wizards of all time. So they gave _me_ the credit. _That's_ why I'm the Boy-Who-Lived: because the people of this country are so blinded by their bigotry that they'd much rather believe that a _one year old child_ managed to vanquish Voldemort than give credit to a muggleborn, no matter how much she deserved it."

"My point is, Fleur," she was surprised slightly by his use of her first name, "I know what the people here are. I know how difficult it must be for you here, and I know that having people like Bagman and Fudge in charge doesn't exactly make things any better. But I _can_ promise you this," his eyes hardened slightly, "things _aren't_ going to stay this way, not if _I_ have any say in it."

They both remained silent for a few minutes. "You are a strange individual, Monsieur Potter."

He grinned. "It's been said. . . oh, and it's Harry."

" _Excusez-moi_?"

"My friends call me 'Harry'," he repeated with a bright smile.

"Very well. . . 'Arry."

"Close enough," he grinned.

* * *

 **AN: So as I'm sure you've guessed, this story is going to be HarryxFleur. Yay :)**

 **I've always felt that Fleur was one of the most underutilized character in the series. Even in GOF, where she has the biggest role, her character is full of inconsistencies. She spends half the book making fun of Harry, Hogwarts etc and as soon as Harry pulls her sister out of the lake, she does a complete 180, so much that she's thinking about improving her 'Eenglish' by the end of the book. Sheesh!**

 **So yeah, I decided to flesh out her character a bit more. Also, since I'm rather big on character development, the next chapter will include the development of her relationship with Harry. I might decide to combine the chapters later.**

 **Lemme know what you people think :)**


	9. First Blood

**AN: The continuation to Fleur's story will be posted in the next chapter. I did that to keep in line with the pattern of this story, as I'm sure most of you noticed.**

 **Warning: this chapter contains scenes of torture, and description of violence. If this isn't your thing, I suggest skipping it.**

* * *

John McDonald smoked quietly in the corner of the dingy pub and surreptitiously glanced around. This was the place, all right. But why his prospective employer wanted to have a meeting _here_ of all places was completely beyond him.

He sighed as he stubbed out his fag. Even though it'd been years since the War ended, returning to Knockturn alley still gave him the creeps.

But he didn't have much of a choice, did he? Christmas was near and his little girl was coming home from her first year at Hogwarts. He wanted to get something _special_ for his princess.

John pulled his jacket closer. Maybe it was simply the weather, but he couldn't help but feel the chills whenever he thought about that strange message.

Something big was going on. Instincts honed by years of dangerous work were telling him that this wasn't going to be a simple one-time job. No, he was getting involved in something huge, something he wouldn't be able to walk away from easily.

He glanced at his wristwatch. Fifteen minutes. He'd wait another ten, then get out if he didn't see anyone. . . .

"Bless my soul, if it ain't little Johnny boy."

He looked up in surprise to see a roguish-looking man in his late fifties approach his table.

"William! William Blake, what are you doing here!?" he asked with a smile.

"The same thing as ye, lad," Blake grunted as he slid into the chair across from him. "Heard 'bout a job."

"An' he's not the only one," another auburn haired wizard sidled in next to John.

"Frankie!"

"One an' only," he grinned. "Good ter see yer again, Johnny."

"Is everyone here?" John craned his neck to glance around the pub.

"Aye, they're comin' in slow," grunted Blake.

"So it's true then, someone's getting the old crowd together," John said quietly. He'd heard the rumors, but not dared to believe them.

Since the last six months, someone was going around trying to recruit former hit-wizards and bounty hunters. Whoever they were, they had enough brains (or enough gold) to lie low; so much that even John's best contacts couldn't tell give him any details.

He looked at the door, recognizing couple of the men sauntering in. He realized, with a start, that he knew most of the people sitting in the pub right now.

They were all former hit-wizards, veterans of the First Wizarding War; relics of a mostly forgotten age. John had, at some point or another, fought alongside each of these men.

They were all old warriors, henchmen, muscle for hire. . they also had one other thing in common.

They were all muggleborn.

Back during the First War, many muggleborn witches and wizards like Frankie, Blake and himself had supplemented the Ministries forces against the Death Eaters. While they didn't exactly _need_ a reason to fight against Voldemort and his supporters, they had joined up the Hit-Wizard squads and done their best to take down those scum.

Unfortunately, they soon realized that the Ministry saw them as nothing more than cannon fodder. Scores of muggleborn hit-wizards were killed when they were sent into suicide missions, while the purebloods who controlled the Ministry sat safely behind their family wards.

But there was nothing any of them could do. At the height of the war, muggleborn were being hunted like animals. The only choices they had was to die in their homes with the rest of their families when the Death Eaters arrived, or to die on the field and ensure their families were at least compensated by the Ministry.

Of course, there was a third option: Albus Dumbledore's famous Order of the Phoenix. John had laughed when he'd heard the name initially. Typical Dumbledore, always going for the dramatic. Still, he'd been interested enough to attend one of their meetings, which had quickly turned into his last.

He still felt like laughing whenever he thought about it. Really, _non-lethal_ take downs? Arresting and handing over Death Eaters to the Ministry? Good people were being slaughtered in the streets by the thousands, but the old goat-fucker was insistent on bringing in those murdering scum _alive_? If he hadn't been sure about Dumbledore's insanity before then, that single meeting had pretty much confirmed it!

In the end, his decision to refuse turned out to be the right one. By the time Voldemort fell in 1981, the Order had been completely decimated. Most of its members had been massacred by the Death Eaters. John himself did not care for these people, but he did shed a few tears over the death of Lily Potter.

Lily was the only muggleborn member of Dumbledore's Order, and definitely one of its most intelligent members. Unlike the other inbred idiots who simply parroted the old coot's foolish philosophy, Lily was a pragmatist. She was one of the few members who believed in dealing with the Death Eaters decisively, and by the end of the war had the single largest body count of everyone in group.

She became a source of inspiration for a lot of the other muggleborn: the Bleeding Lily, as she came to be known. The only muggleborn so powerful and vicious that Voldemort himself had tried to kill her personally and failed, more than once.

It was a sad day when they learned that Lily had fallen to that snake-faced bastard. Still, it was some consolation that she'd managed to take the abomination down with her.

But even after Voldemort's defeat at the hands of a muggleborn (since that was obviously what had happened; only those inbred buffoons would think that a _one-year-old_ could've done it) things didn't improve for their lot. Many muggleborn witches and wizards who had been promised jobs within the Ministry (like John himself) were hung out to dry.

As much as he hated them for it, John understood. The Ministry had no use for soldiers in a time of peace; not when they were struggling to pay their own employees anyway. Besides, all those muggleborn hanging around were a reminder of the dark times everybody was struggling hard to forget.

At least between him and his wife, they managed to make sure his children never went hungry. Others weren't so lucky.

". . . Johnny! Oi, I'm talkin to you mate!"

He jerked up in surprise. "Sorry, Frankie? What's the matter?"

"I was jus' sayin' this all seems mighty suspicious. Bringin' us all together like this," his eyes narrowed. "Ye don' reckon this a trap or summat, do ya?"

"Nah," John said after a moment's thought. "Those idiots at the Ministry don't have the brains, for one thing. Besides," he grinned at the older man across from him, "old Blake wouldn't be here if it was. He's more paranoid than even that Mad-Eye creep."

"Darn straight," Blake said with a twisted grin.

Just then the waitress sauntered over with their drinks and casually slipped John a small scrap of parchment.

"What's it say?" Frankie asked curiously.

John studied the note carefully. "Apparently, our friend is waiting for me in a room upstairs. He's asking me to come alone to represent everyone here."

"Best you be goin' then," Blake grunted.

"You sure? I don't know if I can speak for everyone. . ."

"Bollocks! Yer the only one here who ever passed his NEWTS, the rest of 'em can barely read!"

"Well. . ."

"Jus' go. If yer not back in an hour," Blake looked at Frankie meaningfully, who nodded.

With a sigh of resignation, John McDonald climbed up the stairs.

* * *

He blinked in the dim light, eyes zooming onto the sole occupant of the room.

A hooded figure sat across a table, its face oddly distorted (powerful Notice-me-not charm, John guessed). Not knowing what else to do, he took a seat opposite to the mysterious stranger and waited.

"Mr McDonald," the cultured voice definitely belonged to a male. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Same here. Mr. . ."

"I'll be very happy to tell you my real name at the end, Mr McDonald. For now I would prefer to remain anonymous, if you don't mind."

"Fair enough." It wasn't that uncommon in this business. "Call me John."

"Thank you. . . John."

"You said you had a job for me. . _us_ , I mean," he asked cautiously.

"I do, but first," the figure pushed a thick folder across the table, "I want you to take a look at this."

John opened the folder and studied it curiously. With each page he turned, his eyebrows rose higher and higher. By the time he finished, his mouth was dry and beads of sweat were running down his forehead.

"Is this. . . is this for real?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"I swear upon my life and my magic that every single word written in that folder is true."

John's eyes widened at the brief glow of magic that followed this statement.

"I-I thought he was supposed to be _dead_?" he asked quietly.

"Death is for humans, John. Lord Voldemort is an _abomination_ ; one for whom the usual rules do not apply."

He let out a low breath, not fully ready to process everything that he'd just read. He had heard the rumors of course. Strange things had been happening all year. That Ministry witch Bertha Jorkins going missing, the attack at the Quidditch world cup, a Death Eater somehow infiltrating Hogwarts. . . the signs were clearly there for anyone who could see them.

Put together though, the evidence was unmistakeable.

Lord Voldemort was going to return, and he was going to bring chaos with him.

His eyes fell upon a bottle of brandy and a glass that had surely not been there a minute ago. At an encouraging nod from the stranger, he filled a glass and took a sip.

"What do you want from us?"

"I wish to hire you, for the right price of course," the figure answered smoothly. "You see, unlike the Ministry, I have no desire to wait for Voldemort to make the first move. I wish to launch a. . . pre-emptive strike if you will. I wish to bring the war to his followers before they have a chance to bring it to our homes. I wish to _win_ this war. . . before it has even begun."

John licked his lips thoughtfully. "Who are you working for? Dumbledore?"

The figure laughed at that. "Do you seriously think Albus- _Second chances_ -Dumbledore would even _think_ about launching a pre-emptive strike against these people?"

John smirked slightly. Whoever he was, this man didn't seem to be a fan of the old goat-fucker, which suited him just fine.

The figure pushed across a small envelope at the older man. "This is my offer of compensation for your services."

John's mouth fell open at the sight of all the zeroes on the Gringotts bank draft.

"I will leave it to you to decide how you split this among yourselves. You will of course, get bonuses for the more. . _difficult_ assignments. I have also arranged for a property to be used as headquarters, warded by a Fidelius. I assume that will be adequate?"

"That'll be _more_ than adequate," John muttered. Even split fifteen ways, it was more gold than John had ever made working for the Ministry! "One question though."

"Go on."

"Why me?"

"A number of reasons. The more important ones being that you're unafraid of saying Voldemort's name, and your academic record is rather impressive."

"How do you know about my Hogwarts scores?" he asked suspiciously.

"You'll find," the figure drawled, "that there are very few things I don't know. Twelve OWLS and Seven NEWTS. . . very impressive indeed." John flushed. "In a fair world, you would be a top-ranked auror within the Ministry by now."

"Yeah well, the world's hardly a fair place, is it?"

"No, it isn't," the figure agreed. "I guess we're going to have to change that as well, won't we?"

* * *

Walden Macnair was terrified.

As one of the Dark Lord's inner circle members, he had thought he had seen the worst the world had to offer. There was no pain that he could not endure, no enemy he could not withstand. . .

The last few days had done a good job of destroying those delusions.

He had no idea where things had gone so wrong. One moment he had been strolling around Knockturn alley, as usual.

The next moment, someone threw a black bag over his head, snatched his wand away, tied his hands behind his back and repeatedly hit him over the head until he lost consciousness.

It was only when he came to that he realized his nightmare had barely begun.

He was in a cell of some kind. Stripped naked, hands and legs shackled, he had been left there for days without any food and only a small rusted metal pipe providing him water. The cell also seemed to be warded against apparition and portkeys.

But that wasn't the worst part.

Once a day, a group of men wearing black hooded robes would enter his cell. They would not speak, not even to each other. Instead, these men would simply use their heavy wooden clubs to beat him mercilessly. They took special care not to injure his head, but the rest of his body was forced to bear the brunt of their relentless attacks.

Macnair tried to deal with them the say he dealt with everybody. He tried threatening them first (which was rather ineffectual, given his condition), then tried to bribe them with gold, then tried to remind them that he was a pureblood and an upstanding citizen, then he tried to remind them that the Minister for Magic was a _personal friend_ of his. . .

Nothing worked.

By the seventh day of his captivity, Macnair was a broken man. Every single bone in his hands and legs was destroyed, as were several ribs. His back felt like it was fractured and his breathing had become more difficult.

His mind on the other hand. . .

His mind was teetering on the verge of a complete breakdown. Seven days of being continually assaulted by blunt instruments belonging to those deathly silent individuals had completely wrecked his nerves. He flinched every time he heard the sound of a boot, his mind played tricks on him whenever he stared at a wall for too long, his dreams were always full of black hooded men swinging clubs at him, preventing him from even getting an hour's worth of sleep.

His reaction to the next time he saw his captors was visceral to the extreme. He backed away into a corner like an animal, curled into a ball, whimpering and begging them to stop; offering gold, information, his entire estate. . . _anything_ to make them stop, to make them go away!

He had long since given up on trying to figure out _who_ his captors were. His initial thought had been the Dark Lord, but that was quickly squashed when he remembered that the man had a flair for the dramatics and would definitely have shown his face by now. The Light side did not have the stomach to do this, and Macnair honestly couldn't think of anyone else who hated him to this extent. He had no idea who wanted him to suffer so badly.

He just wished they would hurry up and kill him already.

* * *

As soon as Macnair heard the sound of the iron door being opened, he curled into a ball and waited for the pain.

To his surprise however, two guards grabbed his arms and hoisted him out of his cell.

Macnair didn't know what to think of this. On one hand, he was glad that they were no longer hitting him; on the other hand, he couldn't shake off the feeling that they had something much worse was in store.

Either way, he was in no position to do anything about it. He felt so weak that he could barely hope to stand on his feet, let alone attempt to run or apparate out of there. Most of his bones were broken, and even the slightest movement caused immense pain. It took everything he had just to stay conscious.

A feeling of intense cold suddenly enveloped his senses. Macnair looked up blearily and felt his heart drop.

They were standing in what looked like the backyard of a small manor house. The ground was covered with a couple of inches of snow, and the night was quiet and still. Standing all over the clearing were a dozen men wearing the same black hooded robes, silent as the night.

But that wasn't what scared him.

In the middle of a clearing was a setup that Macnair was intimately familiar with.

 _An executioner's block._

Nausea overwhelmed his senses. No! It couldn't be! They weren't going to. . .

Before he could protest, he was thrown unceremoniously towards the block. He whimpered in pain as he landed on the cold ground.

A single hooded figure walked up to his trembling form. "Greetings, Walden Macnair. I trust your stay with us has been. . . comfortable?"

"P-p-please. . . please. . . l-l-let me go. . ."

"Now, now, Macnair," the figure chided. "None of that. We wouldn't want you to leave here without getting the _complete_ guest experience now, would we?"

"Please. . ." the broken man sobbed. "Please. . . spare me. . ."

"Now what's this? I thought ' _purebloods don't beg'_ , do they Macnair?"

Walden Macnair's breath hitched in his throat. _Purebloods don't beg._ This was a line that the Death Eaters were notorious for using whenever they made sport of mudbloods and muggle-lovers.

"Wh-Who. . . who are you?" he asked weakly.

The figure slowly lowered his hood. Macnair gaped in surprise as he found himself staring at a black haired, green eyed teenager.

"I'm your worst nightmare, Walden Macnair," the Boy-Who-Lived said quietly.

Macnair nearly passed out from shock. _He_ was behind this?

Harry Potter, the bloody Boy-Who-Lived!? The Golden Gryffindor!? Dumbledore's stooge!?

 _This_ boy was the one who had tortured him all this time!? The one who Nott said was _harmless_? Macnair almost wanted burst into hysterical laughter.

 _This is it,_ He realized. _This is the true face of the Boy-Who-Lived_.

"Why?" he croaked out.

"Why?" Potter laughed. " _Why_ , Macnair? Where do I even begin?"

"Perhaps we'll start with the most recent one," he said with a cold smile. "Tell me Macnair, do you remember Marija?"

"Wh-who?" He was honestly confused.

"You don't even know her name, do you?" the Boy-Who-Lived sneered. "Marija Ivanov. The Veela you and your buddies kidnapped from the Quidditch World Cup grounds. Ring a bell?"

Macnair blanched. _How did he know. . . ?_

"So you _do_ remember. I'm glad, I really am. In fact, I was actually worried there for a moment. You know what they say about the memory being the first to go. . ."

The Boy-Who-Lived 's emerald eyes blazed in the darkness. "Tell me, Macnair, what do you _know_ about that girl?"

Macnair shrank back from his gaze.

"Answer me!" he barked.

Macnair merely whimpered in pain.

"You don't know, do you? You don't know _anything_ about her," Potter said quietly.

He slowly paced from side to side. "Marija Ivanov. Age 18. Debuted as a cheerleader for the Bulgarian Quidditch team. Never set foot outside of her country before the World Cup. Got cut off from her friends in the chaos which you and your buddies caused." His eyes glowed even brighter in anger. "Missing: presumed _dead_."

"The Bulgarian Ministry requested that an auror be appointed to find out our whereabouts. But our _beloved_ Ministry wouldn't do that now, would they? She's a _Veela_ , after all. A magical creature. Her kind doesn't have any _rights_ in our country, do they? They're just animals, after all! So they shunted the case to the Department of Magical Creatures, where the file regarding her details is gathering dust _to this day_!"

The Boy-Who-Lived crouched lower. "Tell me Macnair, what did you do to that girl?"

The older man shuddered in fear.

"You killed her, didn't you?"

"No. . ." Macnair gasped. "No. . . we. . ."

"Do not lie to me, Macnair," Potter said dangerously. "I can see the truth looking at me from your worthless mind. I know what you did to that poor girl. I know the very depths of your depravity. _I know everything!_ "

"Tell me, Macnair, how long did you keep that poor girl alive before you got tired of her?"

"T-t-two. . two. . ."

"Go on."

"Two weeks," he confessed, averting his eyes.

Potter's grin was positively feral. "Well, now you know how long you've been enjoying our hospitality, don't you?"

Macnair's eyes snapped up in horror. Two weeks!? He was here for _two weeks_?

Potter straightened, casually twirling his wand. "You know, I often wondered why our society was the way it was. I wondered why the British Wizarding world was so. . so _backward_ , both in body and spirit. I wondered what exactly the problem with these people was, and how I could go about fixing things."

"Then I see people like you, and suddenly I understand. A society that allows animals like you to walk around freely, while good people like my godfather are thrown into Azkaban without trial. . . that says a _lot_ about its people, you know."

His eyes hardened. "There is a _rot_ in Wizarding Britain. A _disease_ that has wormed its way into the very heart of our society. If there needs to be any hope for a future where we can live in peace, then this tumor needs to be cut away. Bit by bit, piece by piece. . . we need to destroy all those rotten parts of our society before we can start rebuilding once again."

The Boy-Who-Lived looked down at the broken wizard at his feet and smiled cruelly. "And what better way to start than by taking out a few Death Eaters, eh Macnair?"

"Please," Macnair begged. His throat was parched from thirst, but he still did his best to speak up. "Please. . we didn't mean. . just fun. . nothing personal. . ."

This was exactly the wrong thing to say. Potter crouched forward suddenly, his eyes blazing once again. "You know, I've gotten real tired of hearing that," he tapped his wand lightly against Macnair's head. " _it's nothing personal, it's nothing personal. . ._ " He straightened up and glared at the defeated wizard in utter contempt. "It was personal for _me_ , you piece of shite! It was personal for me because I _chose_ to make it personal!"

At hi signal, two men hefted Macnair towards the executioner's block.

"Rejoice, Walden Macnair. Your death heralds the beginning of a new era in the Wizarding World."

Macnair stared up at the Boy-Who-Lived in horror as his head was placed in position, and a large axe was raised.

"Goodbye, and may you burn in hell for all eternity."

The last thing Walden Macnair saw was the sight of his own headless torso, as his vision faded to black.

* * *

John McDonald stood to the side as his employer emptied his stomach into a bucket.

"You alright, Boss?"

The Boy-Who-Lived nodded as he accepted a vial of anti-nausea potion before swallowing it gratefully. "I'm fine. Sorry about. . ."

"Don't worry about it, Boss," John said bracingly. "I'd be worried about ya if you _didn't_ show any reaction after all that."

"It wasn't just that, it was. . ." Harry grimaced. "Before he died, I went through that sick bastard's memories. The things they did to that poor girl. . ." He shook his head, obviously not wanting to talk about it.

John nodded sympathetically. He had seen some of the stuff the Death Eaters did to women back during the First War. Even the most battle-hardened aurors had gotten sick after stumbling across their safe houses.

He had to admit he was rather impressed with the teenager. After getting over the shock of being employed by Harry Potter himself, he had wondered if the teenager would have the stomach to handle some of the things they were being asked to do.

Turns out he need not have worried though. After tonight's performance, John almost felt sorry for the poor bastards. Almost.

"Boss, if you don't mind. . ." At Harry's acquiescing nod, he continued. "You didn't have to watch all that, you know? You could've simply walked away after talking to Macnair."

The Boy-Who-Lived merely shook his head. "I'm not Albus Dumbledore, John. I'm not going to give any of my men orders I wouldn't carry out myself." He took a deep breath. "I need to see this. . . I need to see the consequences of my actions. So that I know exactly what I'm doing, so that I don't forget _why_ I'm doing this. . ."

He reached out and patted John's shoulder. "You're a good man, John. All of you are. No matter what you do here. Don't forget that."

"Yes, Boss."

Harry smiled softly. "You're daughter's Natalie, right? First year?"

"Yeah," John grinned. "Writes about you all the time. That whole fight with the dragon and everything."

Harry chuckled and withdrew a small envelope from his jacket. "Here's a small bonus, for a mission well done. Make sure to get her something nice for Christmas."

John accepted the envelope gratefully. "Thanks Boss."

"Merry Christmas, John. Take care."

"You too, Boss."

John watched the Boy-Who-Lived walk away, his respect for the teenage wizard rising. He'd often wondered what it must feel like to stand beside a truly great man, a legend in the making.

He knew now.

Harry Potter was doing something no one, not the Ministry, not Albus-bloody-Dumbledore. . . absolutely _no one_ in Wizarding Britain one was willing to do.

Everyone wants to live in a peaceful world. Few are willing to fight for it, and even fewer are willing to do what's necessary.

There was no doubt about it in _his_ mind, though. Lily's boy was going to change the world.

* * *

 **AN: And the Second Wizarding War officially begins, folks!**

 **This chapter introduces one of my few OCs in this story. John McDonald's role will be fairly significant in later parts.**

 **One of my friends prompted me to write a chapter involving a Death Eater rarely seen in Fanon. I drew lots and chose Macnair at random. Given his dealings with Magical creatures, I felt this was appropriate.**

 **I always wondered why some of the DEs at the Quidditch cup didn't attack the Veela. I mean, with their allure, and DEs looking down on all magical creatures. . . it could make for a interesting plot point.**

 **Bleeding Lily is a tribute to 'Reunion', one of my favorite fics from Rorschach's Blot.**


	10. Pride and Prejudice - II

As the days passed, Fleur began to find more excuses to spend time with the Boy-Who-Lived.

She was honestly grateful for the tentative friendship they'd established, something she still didn't feel she deserved given her attitude towards him since the beginning of the year.

Harry Potter's maturity was the one thing that always amazed her. She had belittled him publicly, treated him coldly at the Yule Ball, spent the last few months secretly spying on him (something she was _quite_ sure he was well aware of). . . . and he _still_ found it in himself to accept her pathetic apology!

She shook her head _. Merde_ , the boy was practically a saint!

No, not boy. . . _man_. Fleur had met many _boys_ in her life. . . immature, selfish, convinced that money and looks were the only things that mattered in life.

Harry Potter was no ' _little boy_ '. He was a man. . . period.

Merely spending a few days in his company was enough to help her understand why the Boy-Who-Lived commanded such respect among his peers. Even with all that power at his fingertips, he never once looked down upon others, never once took advantage of his fame.

In fact, if there was one thing about him that really stood out, it was his desire to help those around him; and it wasn't merely lip-service. No, Fleur realized that Harry Potter's desire to help other people was genuine. He didn't do it because he hoped to gain something. . . he simply did it because he wanted to.

Case in point: Luna Lovegood.

During one of their regular walks around the lake, Fleur worked up the courage to ask him why he'd gone out of his way to help the little blonde girl. She wanted to see how much truth there was to all the things Cedric said about him.

His response had been. . . enlightening.

"I honestly don't know how to answer that," Harry frowned thoughtfully. "I guess I did it because. . . because I _wanted_ to. Yeah, that's right. I mean, it's no big secret that I cannot abide bullies in any form, especially not the malicious ones. . . but yeah, I usually don't step in myself. In Luna's case though, I'm really fond of her. I could tell even when I met her for the first time, she was. . . . _is_ a good person. So I decided to do something to help her."

"But what about ze ozzer students? Were you not worried about making. . . enemies out of zem?"

"Well, I don't really care about being friends with such people, so why worry about making a few enemies?" He smirked at her in that roguish way of his. "I've always lived my life according to my own rules, Fleur. If that offends a few people, then so be it."

Fleur had been skeptical about that initially. As someone who had spent her entire life fighting her own battles, she found it very hard to believe that a celebrity like Harry Potter would put himself on the line for someone else without some potential reward.

But the more time she spent around him, the more she understood. The Boy-Who-Lived truly cared little for the opinions of others. Not in the whole ' _I'm too cool for school_ ' way that most boys his age liked to project; he _genuinely_ did not care what other people thought of him. To Harry Potter, other people's opinions were about as relevant as what he'd eaten for breakfast last week, which was to say not at all.

He was his own man. He followed his own rules, guided only by his unshakeable inner moral compass. While he always took care to look at all sides of the argument, at the end of the day his decisions were _his_ alone, away from the influence and manipulations of others.

It was this quality of his that Fleur found attractive.

Which was why, one fine day, she found herself asking him to escort her to Hogsmeade village.

He simply arched an eyebrow at her amusedly, "Are you asking me out on a date?"

" _Non. . ._ not like a date. . . " she said hesitatingly. Merlin, was asking someone out always supposed to be this hard?

"Then I'm afraid I'm going to have to refuse," he said with mock-regret. "If you wanted to go with someone as 'friends', I'm sure you can ask one of the girls. . . "

She resisted the urge to glower at him in frustration. This tactic was something she was rather familiar with, having used it to great effect in the past. Being on the receiving end wasn't so much fun, however.

 _Merde, he is making me work for it!_

Fleur took a deep breath. "Fine. . . a date zen. . . you agree?" Her accent was even more pronounced because of her embarrassment.

"Oh, I _definitely_ agree," the Boy-Who-Lived smirked, his eyes twinkling with barely concealed mirth.

She sniffed haughtily and spun on her heel, her silvery-blonde hair whipping him across the face as she stormed away.

Damn that _exaspérant_ boy!

* * *

Fleur Delacour was nervous.

In her defense, being nervous on a date was an entirely new experience for the quarter-veela. Being as attractive as she was, she'd never really had any reason to be nervous around boys.

Harry Potter, on the other hand, was a completely different story.

He was courteous to her. . . almost to a fault, and didn't seem to have a problem controlling his hands (unlike others she'd gone out with). The trip across the village was interesting, and Harry himself was more than interesting company.

Still, she couldn't help but shake the feeling that something was missing. A spark of some sort. . .

A loud bark made her jump in surprise. She whipped around to spot a shaggy black dog sitting on his haunches next to her.

"'ello, _chien_ ," Fleur cooed, a dog lover to the core. " _N'êtes-vous pas un mignon_?" She reached out to scratch its head affectionately, as the dog gave a happy bark and licked her between her legs.

"Oi! Get away from her!"

The dog yelped as an enraged Harry Potter ran up to them shooting stinging hexes.

"'Arry!" Fleur was shocked at his behavior, attacking an innocent animal like that!

The Boy-Who-Lived merely ignored her, tackling the unfortunate mutt to the ground. After a few minutes of merciless tickling, the dog transformed into a black haired man, screaming his surrender.

Fleur blanched as she watched the stranger slowly get to his feet, belatedly realizing where his tongue had been a few minutes ago.

 _That. . . that perverti sexuel!_

"Where is he?" Harry roared. "There's no way you came here alone. Where's your better half, Padfoot? Where's that mangy, flea-bitten. . . aha!"

He sent a curse towards a nearby tree, only for a disillusioned figure to swat it away, reappearing with his arms held up in surrender.

"Moony!" The Boy-Who-Lived said with a savage grin. "I see you finally got rid of your ball and chain. Did little _Nymphadora_ finally let her big bad wolf go out to play?"

"I _heard_ that, you little twit!"

Fleur turned around to see a witch with a heart-shaped face and spiky violet ( _violet?_ ) hair advance upon their group, wand raised.

She watched in surprise as Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived to threaten headmasters and tame dragons, went pale. "Tonks! Ummm. . . I didn't see you there. . . errrr. . . what's that behind you?"

Fleur never saw anybody run that fast in all her life.

* * *

After the excitement of watching the errant Boy-Who-Lived being chased up and down the entire village died down, they were able to get down to introductions.

The dog Animagus was Sirius Black, godfather to Harry and a Lord of the Wizengamot (the last part being the only reason Fleur didn't curse the dirty old man to hell and back); the other wizard was a gentleman named Remus Lupin, former DADA Professor at Hogwarts; and the irate witch was Nymphadora ( _don't call me that!_ ) Tonks, an Auror with the British DMLE.

While Fleur had to admit that this wasn't exactly the romantic date she'd envisioned, the unexpected visitors made everything all the more enjoyable. Lord Black ( _call me Sirius, my dear!_ ) was a bit of a rogue, but jovial; Lupin was a knowledgeable and well-read man, his teacher side coming into play often as they discussed Hogsmeade's historical significance; and Tonks' antics were vastly entertaining, heightened by her impressive metamorph abilities.

"You're guardians are very. . . interesting," Fleur said, as they bade goodbye to the trio and started their trek towards the castle.

"If by ' _interesting_ ' you mean ' _a bunch of kids_ ', then yeah I suppose they are," Harry grinned.

She laughed at that. " _Oui_ , zat is true! It was good to _rire_ like zat, zough."

"Yeah, I get the feeling you don't do it very often."

Fleur immediately sobered at that, mentally berating herself for letting her guard down so easily. She might _like_ the young man, but that didn't mean she was going to let him into her personal life anytime soon.

Harry was smart enough to know not push though. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. I wasn't really sure about this whole thing."

"Oh?" she asked curiously.

"Yeah," he rubbed the back of his neck. "I've never really gone on a date before."

"Why not?" Fleur was honestly surprised. She would've thought that someone like the Boy-Who-Lived would have girls lining up to date him.

"Well, I'd say I had too much on my plate these last three years, but that would be stretching it a bit I guess. I suppose I find it a bit difficult to do all these things, y'know?" He shrugged. "It's something the four of us share, I guess."

"What do you mean?" Fleur was really curious right now. She had never seen the Boy-Who-Lived look so. . . uncomfortable.

"There's a reason those three are the only family I've got," he said quietly. "Except for Tonks, I suppose the rest of us have never really had a family of our own."

Harry took a deep breath. "My godfather, Sirius Black, he was all over the papers last summer. You must've seen it yourself."

Fleur furrowed her brow in confusion. _Sirius Black_ : that name _did_ sound familiar. But why?

Then it hit her.

"Your godfazzer. . . 'e was in prison!" She looked at him in shock. "'Arry, I am so sorry! I forgot."

But the Boy-Who-Lived waved it aside. "It's fine. Truth be told, I'm glad you remembered it only now. Sirius still doesn't react well when someone mentions that. . . not that I blame him. Twelve years in Azkaban will do that anyone, I guess."

He sighed. "Then there's Remus. Tell me, did you sense anything. . . _off_ about him?"

Fleur nodded slowly. "'is aura. . . it is different. 'e is part-human, _non_?"

"He's a werewolf," Harry said quietly. "Which, as far as the rest of Wizarding Britain is concerned, makes him a dark creature. Of course, that also means he can never hope to get a decent job in his life." He shook his head, chuckling mirthlessly. "One of the most brilliant wizards I've ever known, the best DADA teacher Hogwarts has seen in decades. . . and no one will employ him because he's sick a few days a month."

Fleur growled indignantly. She, more than anyone else, understood what it meant to be persecuted because of one's nature. She felt incredibly upset thinking about the hardships that kind-hearted man must've been forced to endure because of something he had no control over.

"Then there's good ol cousin Tonks," the Boy-Who-Lived continued. "One of the few female Aurors in the DMLE, graduated at the top of her class at Hogwarts with record scores in Transfiguration. . . and what is the first thing that comes to mind when people hear she's a metamorphmagus?"

"Sex," Fleur answered quietly. "Ze first zing zat men zink of when zey see 'er. . . is sex." She felt a strange kinship of sorts with the young witch. She knew all too well what it felt like for people to pay more attention to her body than her brains or her skills.

"That's why we all stick together, I s'pose," he said thoughtfully. "None of us have ever been able to truly relate to someone else, but when we get together like that, it doesn't feel so bad."

Fleur looked at the Boy-Who-Lived thoughtfully. She noticed that he'd left out details of his own life and privately wondered what he'd been forced to go through that made him unable to relate to anyone else.

* * *

It hadn't been easy to get Harry Potter to open up about himself, but Fleur was nothing if not persistent.

Gradually he talked about his life before Hogwarts. He told her about his non-magic relatives, about not knowing about magic till he received his Hogwarts letter, about not knowing his heritage until he entered Diagon Alley for the first time. . . .

Fleur was equal parts horrified and sympathetic, though she was very careful not to show the latter. She despised pity, and she knew he wasn't looking for it either. So she did the only thing she could. . . she told him about her own life.

For some reason, she found it refreshingly easy to talk to him about herself. She told him about the bigotry she faced on a daily basis because of her heritage, about the treatment she'd received from older students in her younger years, about the way she was forced to sleep everyday with her wand in one hand, years spent staving off advances from unwanted suitors and attacks from jealous girlfriends. . .

It was a strange connection of sorts that was formed between the two of them. A bond forged under the weight of expectations, a desire to break free of preconceived notions. . . . a need to survive and thrive while navigating a treacherous world that both loved and hated them because of who they were.

Fleur also had the rare opportunity of seeing the real Harry Potter, the one who was beneath the image of the Boy-Who-Lived that the Wizarding world took for granted. She found, to her surprise, that he was quite different from the legend he was made out to be.

Not for nothing was Fleur Delacour the top student of Beauxbatons Academy. She had a knack for reading between the lines that most other people missed. While Harry never said it outright, she had a sneaking suspicion that his non-magical relatives had not treated him very well. She was intelligent enough to see signs of abuse, and privately wondered how pathetic the wizards in this country were that they'd let their hero live that kind of a life.

Had this been a few months ago, Fleur would not have hesitated to use this information against the Boy-Who-Lived, but now the only thing she felt for the younger teenager was admiration. Between his hard life, his godfather, all that pressure and the small minded British Wizarding public. . . . .it was a wonder he wasn't on his way to become the next Dark Lord!

Of course, she wasn't foolish enough to believe that Harry Potter was a beacon of light or anything. If some of the rumors about him were to be believed, the Boy-Who-Lived was not above using violence to get what he wanted.

She was okay with that really. She wasn't naïve enough to believe that the world was all sunshine and flowers. Sometimes force _had_ to be used to get the point across.

Harry Potter was not a paragon of the Light, he was not a White Knight in shining armor. . . he was simply human. Flawed like the rest of them.

Like every single person in the world, Harry Potter had a darker side to him. But unlike others, he did not shy away from embracing it.

Despite all this, the one thing that Fleur was absolutely sure of was that Harry Potter was a good man. Not a _nice_ man perhaps, but a good man; a man who genuinely wanted good, not just for himself but for those around him as well.

He was not light or dark. He was grey. Perhaps the darkest shade of grey she had ever seen, but grey nonetheless.

Fleur didn't mind that so much. She actually liked grey.

* * *

"Are you sure you should be me meeting me 'ere?"

"What do you mean, Fleur?"

"Ze third task is tomorrow," she reminded him. "You are not worried zat I will. . . 'ow do you say. . . _sabotage_ your chances?"

Harry actually laughed. "Is that what they're saying now?"

Fleur also smiled. They were both thinking about those ridiculous rumors going around the school. Apparently, the Hogwarts students were worried that she was using her Veela charm to ensnare the Boy-Who-Lived and manipulate him into losing the Tournament.

If only those _cochons_ knew that he was immune to her allure. . . _  
_

"I'm really sorry about that," he said quietly. "I tried telling them. . . "

" _Non_ , 'Arry. Please do not apologize for zem." She waved his concerns aside. It wasn't as bad as it sounded, really. It was perhaps a mark of how much the student body respected (or feared) Harry that no one had the guts to say anything to her face.

Or perhaps they simply didn't fancy their chances against a powerful quarter-veela. Either way, it was convenient.

"Anyways, there was something I wanted to tell you," his expression was grim. "Fleur, you've got to be careful in tomorrow's task."

" _Excusez-moi_?"

"Call it instinct, but I get the feeling something big is going to happen tomorrow." He sighed tiredly. "We're still not completely sure why my name was entered into this Tournament. If it was because someone wanted to hurt me, tomorrow's their last shot. I want to make sure that any of you don't accidentally get caught in the crossfire." He looked at her seriously. "You so much as _feel_ something's going wrong, don't hesitate to get out of there."

"But ze Cup. . . ."

"I don't care about the blasted Cup, and neither should you!" he scowled. "This whole Tournament has been a bad idea from the beginning. There's no need for any of us to wind up dead just because the British Ministry wants to get some good publicity. Their image is _not_ worth our lives!" He locked eyes with her, looking more serious than ever. "I've already spoken to Cedric and Viktor. Be on your guard tomorrow."

" _Oui_ ," she nodded. After nearly losing her sister to the stupidity of the organizers in the Second Task, she wasn't so enthusiastic about winning any more. As far as Fleur was concerned, the sooner this was over the better for everyone involved.

Besides, if there was something out there that made Harry Potter nervous. . . .

She bade goodbye to her friend and walked away, silently praying that his instincts were wrong.

* * *

Fleur hurried through the maze. She was close to the Cup, she could feel it.

Suddenly, she heard someone move up ahead.

"What are you doing?" yelled Cedric's voice. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?"

And then she heard Krum's voice.

" _Crucio_!"

The air was suddenly full of Cedric's pain-filled screams. Horrified, she dashed up the path and saw Cedric writhing on the ground, Krum standing over him with his wand raised.

Krum turned to look at her with a vacant expression just as she rounded the corner. He swiftly pointed his wand at her, but Fleur was faster.

" _Stupefy_!"

A blast of red light sent the Durmstrang Champion flying. Not sparing him a second glance, she hurried over to Cedric, who was curled into a fetal position on the ground.

"Cedric! Cedric, are you okay?"

The boy merely coughed, his body still shuddering from the aftereffects of the curse. Fleur raised her wand, intending to call for help before a clicking sound made her turn around.

Her blood ran cold.

Five huge beasts were bearing down upon her. On her right were two eight-feet long acromantula, while on her left were the three six-feet long abominations (Blast-Ended whatever) that Harry had expressly warned her about.

For a split second she was frozen in fear, before her instincts kicked in.

" _Incendio_!"

Using a sweeping motion, Fleur created a wall of flame, temporarily beating back the monsters.

She thought furiously as she poured more magic into the flames. Cedric was in no shape to fight, and Fleur did not fancy her chances going up five-against-one. Those flames wouldn't keep them away forever. While the giant spiders were falling back, the other three creatures (which she supposed were some sort of manticore-fire crab hybrid) were slowly advancing over the flames, apparently resistant to the heat.

She poured more magic into the flames, refusing to let up even for a brief second. She was running out of options here!

For the briefest of moments, she considered using Cedric as a distraction and making her escape. The boy was a fellow competitor after all, there was no _need_ for her to protect him. Heck, if she had to fight these creatures, she wasn't sure she'd be able to! And if their positions were reversed, would he not do the same?

Between Cedric and Krum, who was lying nearby (it seemed the monsters were charmed from attacking unconscious champions as a safety measure), there would be enough of a distraction to reach the Cup. It was barely twenty yards away!

Fleetingly, and for the first time since the Second Task, she saw an image of herself, raising the Triwizard Cup in front of the entire audience. Her parents faces gleaming with pride, her sister jumping up and down like mad. . .

She shook her head angrily. _What would Harry Potter do?_

The answer was obvious really.

Cursing vilely, she let the flames drop and went into a defensive stance. Time to go down fighting.

She needn't have bothered.

A powerful jet of red light lit up the entire area, ramming the nearest acromantula with so much force that the massive creature went flying.

Fleur whipped her head around. There was no mistaking that powerful aura.

Harry Potter was here.

* * *

Fleur had always thought she had a reasonable measure of the Boy-Who-Lived's power.

Until today that is.

With an intricate movement of his wrist, Harry stabbed his wand into the ground. Immediately four massive dogs leapt out of the ground and raced ahead to attack the other acromantula. At the same time, one of those abominations tried to sneak up on his right flank.

Harry didn't even bother looking at it. He merely pointed his wand in its general direction, then jerked it upward suddenly. A spire of stone burst out of the ground, impaling the beast on its fleshy underbelly and lifting its corpse ten feet into the air.

Then he turned to another one of those creatures and threw the most powerful cutting charm Fleur had ever seen. The sheer power behind the curse tore through its powerful armor, cutting it neatly in half.

Another one of those monsters suddenly gave a loud BANG and streaked towards the Boy-Who-Lived. With lightning reflexes, he jumped cleanly over the approaching creature, landing a precise hit with a piercing hex at where its brain should be.

By this time, both the acromantula had recovered sufficiently to attack him again. Harry ripped off one of the massive stingers from the corpses lying around him and banished it into the skull of the nearest spider.

The last spider he turned into stone with a powerful _Duro_ curse, before shattering it into a hundred pieces with a well-placed _Confringo_.

Fleur gazed in open mouthed shock at the teenager calmly making his way over to them. The entire battle was over in less than a minute; not to mention the sheer power behind each of his curses, overcoming all those magic-resistant beasts with such ease. . .

 _Merde, just how powerful **is** he!?_

"You guys alright?" The Boy-Who-Lived asked, looking over them both. "Cedric, what happened to you?"

"Krum. . . cruciatus. . . ."

"What!?"

" _Oui_ , it is true," Fleur said. "I saw 'im attack Cedric."

"No. . . ." Cedric coughed, sitting upright. "Harry. . . his eyes. . . completely glazed up. . . ."

"What?" Harry said sharply. "You're saying Krum was under the Imperious?"

"I'm. . . quite sure. . . ."

"Something's not right." His brow furrowed in thought. "Cedric, can you move? I'll send up red sparks."

"No time. . . take the cup. . . ."

"What?"

"'e is right," Fleur said, her mind going along similar lines. "We are in ze center. It will take too long for anyone to get 'ere," she explained to a confused Harry. "Madame Maxime told me zat ze maze would collapse as soon as ze first champion touches ze cup."

Cedric nodded. "Finish this. . . Harry. . . ."

"I don't know," he looked at Fleur doubtfully. "Doesn't seem right."

"Would you like to race me for it?" he asked her hopefully.

She smiled at him. Only _he_ would be noble enough to suggest something like that!

Still, as Fleur looked at the Cup glinting on its plinth twenty yards away, she couldn't help but feel sorely tempted.

She could still do it. Her longer legs gave her a distinct advantage. She could get to the cup before him. She had worked so hard to get this far after all. . . . shouldn't she at least try?

For one shining moment, she saw herself emerging from the maze, holding it. She saw herself holding the Triwizard Cup aloft, heard the roar of the crowd, her schoolmates' faces shining in admiration. . . .

No one would ever accuse her of being just a pretty face ever again, no one would mock her for her heritage again, no one would. . .

Then the picture faded and she found herself back in the maze, staring at Harry's shadowed face.

" _Non_."

"Excuse me?"

"Non," she took a deliberate step away from the cup. "Take it 'Arry. You deserve it."

"But. . . ."

"Mate. . . . she's right," Cedric had sat up by now, some of his color returning. "You deserve to win."

"But. . . ."

"You saved us," Fleur said with a soft smile. "You saved us all. . . . even zough you did not need to."

"You. . . told me about the dragons," Cedric grinned. "I'd be dead by now. . . if you hadn't. . . ."

"You are ze only ones who zought about everyone's safety," she stated. "None of us did."

"Besides, zis tournament is about ze best in magical power and ability." She gestured to the carnage around them. "It is clear who ze winner is wiz zis."

"Yeah," Cedric nodded.

"Take ze cup, 'Arry. You deserve it."

The Boy-Who-Lived walked up to the cup and stared at it. Turning around to look at the other two champions for a moment, he reached out and grabbed the handle. . .

. . . and promptly disappeared.

* * *

Fleur wasn't really sure about what happened next.

She was dimly aware of the maze collapsing and the judges running to meet them. She was aware of the Hogwarts mediwitch tending to Krum and Cedric, while she mechanically answered questions from the judges.

Only one fact permeated her consciousness.

Harry was gone. _Harry was gone!_

This wasn't right! The cup wasn't supposed to be a portkey! The maze was simply supposed to drop, followed by fireworks and the winner's name being announced.

Madame Maxime had specifically told her that the Tournament officially ended as soon as the first champion touched the cup.

Then where did Harry go?

A loud voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "Where's Karkaroff?"

Fleur turned around to regard a stern-looking witch with a monocle, flanked on both sides by uniformed aurors. "Where's the Durmstrang headmaster? His champion is injured," she said in a booming voice.

Everyone seemed to go still for a second, making the same horrifying connection. Then Dumbledore acted.

"Fawkes!"

A burst of fire above their heads revealed a golden phoenix. Dumbledore reached out to grab its tail and disappeared in a flash.

Thirty agonizing seconds later, the old warlock returned with the Durmstrang headmaster bound in chains.

"What is the meaning of this?" Karkaroff bellowed. "This is an outrage! I demand. . . ."

Fleur drew her wand to curse the obnoxious man, but someone beat her to it.

"Where's Harry?" Remus Lupin demanded coldly.

"What. . ." Karkaroff sputtered. "What is this. . . ?"

With a snarl, the former Professor grabbed him by the collar and lifted him bodily into the air. "WHERE IS HARRY?"

Watching the usually mild-mannered man snarl with such hatred stunned everyone into silence.

"I. . . you have to understand. . ." Karkaroff whimpered in fear. "I. . . received a note. . . it said to turn the cup into a portkey. . . they said they'd _kill_ me. . ."

"Where did you send Harry, Igor?" Dumbledore asked sharply.

"I don't know. . . I swear. . . ." He blanched at their disbelieving looks. "I was told to obliviate myself immediately after. . . . please. . . don't kill me. . . "

Lupin looked like he'd like nothing better than to do exactly that, but an auror (Tonks, Fleur realized) put her hand on his shoulder and murmured something. With a grimace of disgust, he dropped the coward at the head of the DMLE's feet, who promptly stunned the man.

"Merlin," Sirius said, rubbing his face. "What do we do now?"

"'eadmaster," Fleur said desperately. "Can you not use your phoenix to locate 'Arry?"

"I have already tried, Ms Delacour," Dumbledore said in a tired voice. "Unfortunately, it seems that he is in a heavily warded location."

"I thought wards couldn't prevent phoenix travel," Sirius asked suspiciously.

"Only the darkest of wards can prevent fire travel via phoenix, Sirius. I can only think of one person who has the ability to erect wards of such power."

Sirius blanched while Fleur covered her mouth with her hands. Was he saying. . . ?

"But zen what do we do?" she asked frantically.

"The only thing we can, Ms Delacour: we wait."

"Wait? Wait for what?"

"For Harry to return to us," Dumbledore said simply.

"But. . . ."

"Harry is an incredibly resourceful young man, Ms Delacour. Have faith. He will come back to us. . . I know he will."

Fleur could only pray that he was right.

* * *

An agonizing hour later, a shout from the crowd alerted Fleur.

As if in a trance, she got to her feet and started running, ignoring the shouts of caution from her family.

She had to get to him. She had to see him with her own eyes. She had no idea why she felt so desperate, but right now she didn't care.

Moving so fast that she knocked several people flying, Fleur Delacour raced to the edge of the Hogwarts grounds.

There he was!

His clothing was torn, his face caked in blood, he looked like he's just come from a warzone. . . but his eyes. . .

His bright green eyes were desperately searching for her, just as hers were searching for him.

She skidded to a halt in front of him, eyes shining with tears.

"Hey. . . ." Harry Potter said with a tired smile before he passed out in her arms.

* * *

"For the last time, Viktor, it's fine!"

"But. . ."

"It's fine. . .okay! Look I'm all healed up and everything. No harm done!"

"But still. . ."

"Viktor," Harry spoke up from his bed. "It's okay. Cedric's right. . . whatever happened back there wasn't your fault."

Fleur sighed in exasperation. The three boys had been having this talk for quite some time now.

Harry was still in the Hospital Wing, the irate mediwitch absolutely refusing to discharge him or allow any visitors. She only acquiesced on the third day (on Dumbledore's personal request) to allow the other three champions in.

So it was that Fleur found herself beside Harry's bed, with a recovered Cedric Diggory and guilt-ridden Viktor Krum, early after breakfast.

"Madam Bones showed me the results of Karkaroff's interrogation," he continued. "Apparently the slimy bastard slipped you a mild befuddlement draught before casting the Imperious. You'd have managed to throw off the curse otherwise."

Viktor clenched his fists in anger. "That копеле! To think that I. . . ."

"You could not have known. . ." Fleur said soothingly. "Your own 'eadmaster no less. . ."

"I know," he took a deep breath. "I hope he suffers for that."

"Er. . . well, I hate to say it," Cedric cleared his throat. "My dad reckons that Karkaroff won't be punished since he's not a British citizen. The most our Ministry can do against him is to deport him to Bulgaria."

"So he's going to go free?" Viktor looked outraged.

"Seems so."

"It doesn't matter anyways," Harry shook his head. "He's a dead man walking."

There was silence as everyone contemplated that ominous statement. Then Viktor spoke.

"So it is true. He is really back?" Harry nodded quietly.

Dumbledore had confirmed it in an announcement that Harry had been abducted and attacked by Lord Voldemort. This was met with a great deal of consternation and panic, but the Hogwarts Headmaster insisted it was better for everyone to know the truth rather than speculate needlessly.

Fleur privately agreed with him. The truth was always preferable to lies, no matter how uncomfortable.

"And your Minister. . . he refuses to listen?" Viktor scowled.

"Dad says Fudge is being an idiot," Cedric said angrily. "Unfortunately, the Ministry is full of idiots like him. . . people who enjoy burying their heads in the sand. Unless You-know-who walks into the Ministry himself, people are gonna continue to turn a blind eye."

"They are foolish," Viktor said bluntly. "You should not haff to tolerate them. . . _you_ Harry, you are smart, powerful. . . you could get rid of this foolish Minister."

"You know, Dad was saying the same thing the other day," Cedric grinned. "He reckoned if you and Dumbledore gave a joint press statement and introduced a no-confidence vote, Fudge would be gone by the weekend."

But the Boy-Who-Lived merely shook his head. "It's not as simple as that, Ced."

"'e is right," Fleur said, to their surprise. "Even if you remove 'im, whatever government would be formed will be temporary. Ze entire country will end up in turmoil, and lack of stability will only reduce ze Ministry's efficiency."

Cedric gaped at her. "Merlin, how do you know all that?"

"Wizarding Politics is a popular elective at Beauxbatons," she answered with a smile.

"Damn, I knew I should've gone there instead of Hogwarts."

"I'll tell Cho you said that," Harry said smugly.

"Oi!"

They laughed for a few minutes. "Fleur's right," Harry said seriously. "If we get rid of Fudge now, there'll be chaos at the Ministry. Everybody will be too busy squabbling over who should be the next Minister to get anything else done. If Voldemort chooses to attack at that point, there's no way we'll be able to respond."

"Not to mention. . . there is a good chance he vill try to rig your elections," Viktor pointed out correctly. "You might end up vith someone vorse."

"So damned if we do, and damned if we don't," Cedric sighed.

"It's not so bad," Harry said soothingly. "Sure this gives him time to prepare, but this gives _us_ time to prepare as well. We make good use of this time, I guarantee we'll be ready for whatever he decides to throw at us."

Fleur marvelled at his confidence, silently wondering if he'd been preparing for something like this since the last year. Then Viktor stood up.

"Vhatever happens, I vill stand by you Harry Potter," he stuck out his hand which Harry took without hesitation. "I vill use every contact I haff in The Bulgarian Minstry. You vill not fight alone."

"As will I," Fleur said, determinedly placing her hand on theirs. "I 'ave already spoken to Papa. 'e is sending word to ze French Ministry as we speak."

"Count me in as well," Cedric chimed in. "Dad's rounding up support in the Ministry already. That Dark Bugger won't know what'll hit him."

The Boy-Who-Lived looked at their hands on top of his. "Thank you. . . all of you."

* * *

"Everything all right?"

" _C'est_ fine," Fleur said, watching the retreating back of the youngest Weasley with a bemused expression.

"What were you two talking about?" Harry asked curiously.

"She was. . . 'ow do you say. . . _warning_ me zat zere would be. . . _consequences_ should I 'urt you in any way."

"Why would she say that?" he seemed puzzled. "The Tournament's over, isn't it?"

"You know what she means," she said exasperatedly. _Merde, he was going to make her say it, wasn't he?_

"Really?" His expression cleared dramatically. "Oh. . . . _that_."

"Yes. . . . _zat_."

"Wonder what gave her that idea," he said casually. "I mean. . . it's not like we're an official couple or something."

"We are not?" Fleur arched her brow imperiously.

"Nah. . . I mean sure, we've been on a few dates. . . and a couple of life and death situations. . . and you spent the last week giving me company in the Hospital Wing. . . but it's not like we formally announced it or. . . ."

He was cut off as Fleur grabbed his face and pulled him into a searing kiss. A few minutes of steamy French kissing later, she broke away to look a dazed Harry Potter in the eyes. "Do you require any more ' _formal announcing'_?" she asked in a husky voice.

He swallowed, barely able to form a coherent thought for a few minutes. "Maybe we should. . . continue. . . negotiations?" he asked hopefully.

"I am glad you asked," she purred, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the nearest broom closet. She noted with appreciation that his eyes were fixed firmly on her backside.

Fleur smirked to herself. Just because he could resist her allure, doesn't mean he could resist _her_.

* * *

 **AN: I'm sure now you folks realize why I decided to split this into two parts.**

 **Now, about the reviews coming in from my readers regarding the last chapter.**

 **To those who're uncomfortable about the torture and gore in the last chapter, chew on this for a bit:  
**

 **We've already established that this Harry is an extremely Slytherin bastard. So what possible reason would he have had to torture and kill a DE for the heck of it?**

 **Think about it. I'll reveal the reason in the next couple of chapters or so. Just remember that this Harry usually has a plan within a plan.**

 **Also, to clarify once and for all: this isn't a Dark Harry story in the sense that he's a dark wizard. This Harry is Grey, a much more darker grey than most people are used to, since he has zero compunctions about torturing and killing people.**

 **Special thanks to Slytherin66 for such detailed reviews and interesting insights.**


	11. Dark Memories

**AN: One of my readers insisted that I do a chapter concluding the Chamber of Secrets, so there you go.**

* * *

Tom Riddle was a very patient young man.

But even _he_ had to admit that being stuck in a diary for Morgana-knew-how-long was rather. . . irritating.

He was sixteen when he had taken his first step towards greatness; his first step to cheat death itself and become greater than any wizard who ever lived.

His greatest creation, his pride. . . his _horcrux_.

Using the death of the disgusting muggle who had dared to sully the noble line of Slytherin to take his first step towards immortality had truly been one of his better ideas.

But this side-effect had been rather. . . _unexpected_.

Tom honestly couldn't think about how the ritual for creating a horcrux could lead to something like this. He had read about instances of the soul fragment possessing those who tried to use the horcrux vessel. . . . but for the soul fragment to develop a mind of its own?

 _That_ he had not foreseen.

Perhaps it was because he had attempted the ritual for the first time; perhaps it was because, in his excitement, he'd ended up pouring more magic into the diary than required. . . either way his soul fragment had become something _more_ than he'd intended. It would seem that magic had his desire to ensconce a part of himself within the book a bit _literally_ , and ended up infusing his memories and his sense of self into its very pages.

The end result was a diary, containing the perfect representation of his sixteen-year old self.

It was disconcerting, and at the same time oddly exciting.

To the Tom Marvolo Riddle stuck within the diary however, it had quickly become boring. He had no senses with which to perceive, no idea how much time had passed in the outside world and worst of all, no one to communicate with.

While Tom did not enjoy the company of other people in the slightest, the lack of a reliable source of information troubled him greatly.

He had so many questions he was burning to ask. How much time had passed in the outside world? What had his other self accomplished by now? How far along was he on his path to greatness? Did he fulfill his ambition of becoming the world's most feared sorcerer? Was Lord Voldemort reigning over magical Britain by now? Was his most hated Professor dead? _Killed_ , hopefully, by his own hand?

Merlin. . . there were so many things he wanted to know!

Which was why, when the first droplet of ink fell on the diary's pages, triggering his remaining senses, he took to it like a duck takes to water.

 _Ginny Weasley_.

A _name_. . . the person who had found his diary had written their name onto its first page!

Barely able to contain his excitement, he replied.

 _Hello Ginny. My name is Tom. How did you come by my diary?_

* * *

If Tom had merely been _excited_ before, he had no words to describe what he felt right now.

The naïve little girl writing in his diary was a wellspring of information, and the things she had told him. . . Morgana, _things_ she had told him. . . .

Apparently he had managed to come pretty close to fulfilling his ambitions. He had become a Dark Lord, one greater than any other (why else would the sheep of this country still be afraid to say his name). As Lord Voldemort, he had struck terror into the hearts of his foes and caused untold damage to the followers of that old muggle-loving fool (who was apparently the Headmaster now). But then something strange had happened. Somehow, inexplicably, he had been defeated on the Halloween of 1981; and if the girl was to be believed, it was because his own Killing Curse had backfired off a baby wizard's forehead.

Tom was torn between elation and irritation. On one hand, he had come very close to achieving his goal; on the other hand, he had met his downfall at the hands of some snot-nosed brat not even out of his diapers!

All was not lost, however. The fact that _he_ was still here meant that his true self had managed to cheat death after all, even if the mindless masses believed otherwise.

Still, he had to admit he was rather curious. Just who _was_ this Harry Potter. . . . this so-called _Boy-Who-Lived_? How in the name of Morgana did he manage to block _his_ Killing Curse, let alone reflect it back onto him? And most important of all, how did he do it all as a _one-year old_?

He was going to find out. Tom was going to solve this little mystery no matter what it took.

And if he managed to get a new body out of the whole deal, then so much the better.

* * *

He was back at Hogwarts.

Lying in the bag of that obnoxious little brat, he took a moment to revel in the ambient magics of the castle.

This, right here, was the reason he loved Hogwarts so much. The very air was thick with magical energy, and with so many young witches and wizards walking around with their auras barely under control. . . it was like being in a veritable maelstrom of magical power.

For someone like Tom who had been trapped in a void for so long, this was like being at an all-you-can-eat buffet. He longed to gorge himself on the magical energy of the students of the school.

Unfortunately, being a diary meant that he could only connect to the magical core of someone who wrote in it regularly. Seeing as his current owner was a eleven-year-old child with few possessions of her own, he could not foresee a situation where he might end up in the hands of an older student with more magical potential.

But that was alright. Tom was used to making the most out of what he had.

It helped that the little girl was a rather amusing specimen. She had practically no friends, and her massive inferiority complex due to her poverty meant that wasn't going to change anytime soon. So the brat decided to use _him_ as an outlet to all her woes.

It was tiring, really, to listen to the childish troubles of an eleven-year-old. If Tom had a body he would have rolled his eyes. Morgana's tits, were little girls _always_ this insecure? Or was it just this particular generation that were such whiny little bitches?

But Tom was patient. . . . patient as a viper about to strike its prey, anyways. He had long since learned to take advantage of people's weaknesses, to use their own fears and insecurities against them to get what he wanted.

One lesson that the young Tom Riddle had learned pretty early in his life was that all people, regardless of race, gender, nationality. . . all people had the same major flaw: they wanted to feel important.

People wanted to be special, people wanted to be loved, people wanted to believe that their problems were unique; that they were special in that no one else in the whole wide world had ever faced problems similar to their own. Once you understood this simple fact, manipulating people to get what you wanted was child's play.

The tricky part, however, was the timing. Move too soon and you came off as overeager, move too late and the other party lost interest.

Nailing the timing correctly required patience and subtlety. Tom had plenty of both.

So he wrote back to the child. He was understanding, _sympathetic_ even. When she told him about her family's poverty and having to come to Hogwarts with second-hand robes and books, Tom told her about his own past. He told her about being an orphan, about having to attend Hogwarts on a scholarship fund, about spending days locked up in his own dorms worried that no one would want to befriend him.

But he made sure to highlight the positives of his Hogwarts experience as well. He told her about studying hard to become the top student in his year, he told her about being a prefect and even Head Boy, he later found to his surprise when they checked the prefects register (Dumbledore must have thrown a fit); he also told her to check out the Special Award he'd received for services to the school.

He felt her respect for him grow steadily, and he could easily imagine what the naïve little child was thinking. Obviously, her romantic instincts were kicking in: Tom Riddle, the poor little orphan who went on to achieve great things because of his hard work. So now he moved to encourage her, tell her that she too could accomplish great things. That she was talented and driven, and that she shouldn't let her foolish older brothers get her down all the time.

It was tiring, exasperating work. . . but also immensely rewarding.

" _No one's ever understood me like you, Tom. . . . I'm so glad I've got this diary to confide in. . . . It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket. . . ._ "

Oh yes, oh so rewarding!

* * *

Tom supposed he should be grateful that Harry Potter was so popular among the witches of Hogwarts.

It made shadowing him all the more easier.

Ginny has spent enough time writing in his diary for him to bypass her barriers and start pouring a bit of his consciousness into hers. It was slow work, but eventually he had reached a point where he could share her body without attracting undue attention.

Possessing a young eleven-year-old girl's body was a. . . _strange_ experience. It was slightly uncomfortable viewing the world from such a different perspective, but he honestly didn't feel like complaining.

After spending an eternity trapped in the pages of a diary, even something as mundane as feeling the touch of parchment made him feel excited. He took a great pleasure in savoring the results of all his hard work: all those hours spent researching horcruxes, bearing such unexpected fruit.

Unfortunately, his access to Ginny's soul being restricted for the moment meant that the time he spent in her body was shorter than he liked. He decided to use it productively however, by gathering as much information as he could on the Boy-Who-Lived.

Tom had to admit that Harry Potter was quite an enigma. He was intelligent (the top student of his year, if Ginny was to be believed), magically powerful (despite being a half-blood), had the respect of his peers and admiration of his teachers, and yet. . . .

And yet, there was something _off_ about him.

He reminded Tom of someone else a bit too much. He reminded him of. . . well, of himself really.

It was barely there, but Tom could see it clearly. His confident swagger, the way he commanded attention through his actions, the patently fake pleasant expression he always wore like a mask; the way he moved, like a wolf among the sheep, assured in the knowledge that he was the most dangerous being out there.

The similarities were just too much.

At one point, Tom wondered if somehow the boy was another one of his horcruxes. He entertained the possibility that the rebounding Killing Curse might have, however accidentally, lodged a piece of his soul into the boy's body. Over time, the shard might have degraded the host soul, and taken full possession of the child's body. It would certainly explain why Harry Potter acted so much like a young Tom Riddle.

Unfortunately, further investigation quickly forced Tom to discard that theory. As a horcrux, he had the ability to sense other fragments of his true self, and he could detect no such thing from the Boy-Who-Lived. He could, however, sense another one hidden somewhere in the castle (he had to admire his future self's boldness, hiding a _horcrux_ right under Dumbledore's crooked nose).

All of this made him all the more determined to solve the riddle that was Harry Potter.

Taking possession of Ginny's body once again, he ran his/her hands over the diary thoughtfully.

The best way to test a person's character was to put them in a difficult situation. Adversity was the touchstone of a man's character, as the saying went. But how to go about causing problems for the Boy-Who-Lived without drawing that muggle-loving fool's attention?

He absentmindedly traced his/her hands over the date. September 28, 1992.

 _1992_.

He smiled softly. Fifty years. It had been fifty years to this day since he had been created.

Fifty years since he took vengeance upon his father, fifty years since he got rid of the last of the Gaunts, fifty years since he found the legacy of Salazar Slytherin in this castle. . . .

 _Slytherin. . .  
_

A cold smile crept up on his face. He knew _exactly_ what he was going to use to test Harry Potter's character.

* * *

Tom Riddle was in a great mood today.

He finally had complete possession of Ginny Weasley's body, Dumbledore had been kicked out of Hogwarts, that oaf Hagrid had been arrested for suspicion of opening the Chamber. . . .

And best of all, he finally had Harry Potter's complete _undivided_ attention.

Tom had spent months using Ginny to set the basilisk on the mudbloods of the school. However, by some strange stroke of luck, none of the filthy little urchins had died; only ending up petrified by the basilisk's death gaze.

Still, it wasn't like that the fate of a few mudbloods bothered him over much. In a way, the lack of deaths actually helped his cause. . . seeing as he remembered full well how close the school had come to being closed when that stupid girl had died back in 1942.

No, what bothered him the most was Potter's _attitude_. After everything Ginny had told him about his nobility and courage, he had expected him to show more initiative in tracking down Slytherin's heir. Heck, he'd half-expected him to go charging into the Slytherin dorms looking for clues like a typical Gryffindor.

But the Boy-Who-Lived had done none of those things. If he had investigated, he had done so with such secrecy and subtlety that even Tom had not been able to catch him at it.

This lack of enthusiasm from the boy hero was. . . troubling.

For a brief moment, he had even considered convincing Ginny to gift his diary to the Boy-Who-Lived, but quickly discarded the idea. The brat was an unknown quantity, there was no way of knowing how he would react if he realized what the diary was. Besides, with his magical power (which was a lot greater than the average Hogwarts student), most of the compulsion spells on the diary would have no effect on him at all.

He had almost been at his wits end, when inspiration suddenly struck him.

Tom remembered something Ginny had told him about Potter. Apparently, the Boy-Who-Lived had taken a young Ravenclaw, Luna something-or-other, under his wing. He had gone out of his way to get back at those bullying her, something rather uncharacteristic of him; so much so that her tormentors had turned themselves in out of sheer fright, and a few had even left the school!

Then there was the fact that Potter was keeping that mudblood friend of his close in the wake of all the attacks, not even so much as letting her go to the bathroom on her own.

This brought to the fore his greatest weakness: his friends.

Harry Potter _cared_ about his friends.

Finally, something that Tom could fully exploit!

And exploit he did. It took him well over a month, but he eventually managed to corner both Granger and that Ravenclaw in a corridor. Unfortunately, the mudblood bitch had pulled out a mirror at the wrong moment, sparing their pathetic lives.

It had the intended effect though.

The next day, the rumors had already began to spread: Harry Potter was on the warpath. The whole school was abuzz with news that the Boy-Who-Lived was now actively involved in the hunt for Slytherin's heir.

Tom gave him a full week before making his final move.

He smirked slightly as he wrote Ginny's final message on the wall in her own blood.

It was a shame really. . . the girl had been a most useful tool.

Taking over her body hadn't been nearly as easy as he'd anticipated though. The little bint had been surprisingly strong willed, though a little foolish. He remembered some of her more humorous entries, talking about sudden blackouts and memory losses and being covered in rooster feathers. It had taken her some time to work out who was really responsible, and she'd even thought about getting rid of the diary, causing Tom to end up with a Slytherin half-blood named Tracey Davis.

In the end, her own stupidity had led her to steal the diary back from the Davis girl. Tom had chosen that moment to completely exert his will over hers, crushing her consciousness and taking complete control of her body.

And now. . . now he was going to enact the last stage of his grand plan.

If everything went as he predicted, he would have a new body of his own by the end of the day, Ginny Weasley would be dead and Harry Potter. . .

Well, he had something _special_ planned for the boy.

He would use Ginny as bait to lure the Boy-Who-Lived into the Chamber. Then, once they were alone, he would torture the child until he found out exactly how his future self had been beaten on the Halloween of 1981. When the child was of no more use to him, he would feed him to the basilisk (preferably alive), then go out and look for his future self.

Tom took a step back to admire his handiwork. It was perfect! If Potter was even half the knight in shining armor he was made out to be, he would go charging into the Chamber to rescue the damsel in distress.

Too bad for him, it would already be too late.

That was Tom's last thought before a powerful spell hit him squarely in the back, and his world went dark.

* * *

When he finally came to, Tom found himself lying on a cold stone floor.

He sat up quickly, rubbing his eyes, trying to take in as much of his surroundings as he could. He was in a large, dimly lit hall of some kind; and lying a dozen feet away from him, was a little girl with flaming red hair.

Wait a minute! _Flaming red hair?_

He stalked closer to the clearly unconscious figure of the girl. It was Ginny Weasley, no doubt. . . but if she was lying _there_ then. . .

He gasped loudly as he looked at himself. He was back in his real form, his true self. . . his original body! He could feel his arms and legs, his face was its usual self. . .

He had somehow regained his body! The process had finally begun! Sure, he was not completely regenerated; Tom could still feel himself a little blurry at the edges, his connection to the Weasley chit's life force was still there, but still. . .

It had worked!

But then, how on earth did he get. . . ?

"Awake, I see."

Tom whipped around to find himself face to face with none other than the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Hello, Tom. Welcome back to the land of the living."

Tom sneered at the younger boy, quickly taking in his surroundings. His eyes widened ever so slightly when he realized where they were.

The Chamber of Secrets.

But he was unconscious all this time. Then how did Potter bring them here?

"You know, Tom," the Boy-Who-Lived said, interrupting his thoughts. "You went to a awful lot of trouble just to get my attention."

"You know who I am?" Tom asked curiously.

"Of course, I know who you are. Or to be more precise, I know exactly _what_ you are."

Tom narrowed his eyes at the smirking child. There was no way _he_ could possibly know.

"And just what _am_ I, Potter?"

"You're an abomination," Potter said quietly. "Something that shouldn't exist. A fragment of a soul. . . a horcrux." Tom's eyes widened in disbelief. "Don't look so surprised. I've known that you were behind all this for quite some time now. I just couldn't locate your soul container, not knowing what to look for." He held up a very familiar book. "A diary Tom, really?"

Tom resisted the urge to snarl at the abhorrent child. Unfortunately, as long as the boy held his diary, Tom's life was in his hands. He couldn't risk doing anything that might harm his soul container. Not that he could do anything anyways, without a wand. . .

His foot brushed against something long and cylindrical. With lightning reflexes, he snatched it up to. . . only to find that he was holding a rather battered-looking wand.

Ginny's wand.

He smirked slightly. Looks like the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't as smart as he thought.

"Oh I left it there for you," Potter said conversationally. "Wouldn't be nice to not give you a fighting chance, would it?"

Tom stared at him incredulously. "You foolish, overconfident child. . . do you even _know_ who I am? Do you even know to _whom_ it is you are offering a fighting chance? I am. . . ."

"Lord Voldemort, I know," Potter said. He grinned at Tom's stunned expression. "Please, that stupid anagram is hardly that difficult to comprehend. I left you the wand knowing exactly who you are, Tommy boy. You wanna know why?"

His emerald eyes blazed with power. "I left you that wand because no matter what happens tonight, _you_ are going to _die_. Your defeat, your destruction, is a foregone conclusion. The only one who doesn't know that yet. . . is _you_."

Tom took a half-step back at the sheer intensity of power radiating from the Boy-Who-Lived. His eyes were glowing menacingly in the darkness, the air in the chamber growing heavier. . . .

And just like that, it was gone. Potter's eyes went back to normal before he smiled cheerfully. "As I was saying before, you went to a lot of trouble to get my attention. Why?"

Tom sneered. "I was curious. I have many questions to ask you."

"Ask away, then. Not like you'll be able to do it later."

Tom bit back a sharp retort. A few more minutes, maybe an hour at most, and Ginny's life force would be drained completely, and his new body would be complete. Then he would show this little upstart!

"Well. . . how is it that a mere child was able to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort's powers were destroyed?"

To his surprise, Potter laughed loudly. "You have to be kidding me!" he said between his laughter. " _You_ , the greatest wizard of all time?"

Tom was incensed. "I am Lord Voldemort! A wizard whose name people are afraid to speak. . . "

"Oh cut the crap, Tommy boy," Potter snorted. "Didn't I just say I know exactly what you are? You, Tom Marvolo Riddle, are nothing but a bastard, _literally_ I may add." He smirked viciously. "You're nothing but the bastard spawn of a squib from a family of the most _pathetic_ bunch of inbreds I've ever seen, and a _muggle_ , who dumped you like trash the moment he realized what you were!"

"How dare you!" Tom bellowed. "You filthy half-blood. . . !"

"At least both of my parents were _magical_ , you piece of shite!" Potter sneered at him. "Not to mention my mum didn't need to slip my dad a bloody love potion just so she could sleep with him. Then again, what would you expect from a woman who dumped her son in an orphanage rather than live to deal with him herself?"

The mention of the orphanage struck a nerve. His hatred overriding his sense of caution, Tom pointed his wand at the younger boy and bellowed, " _Avada Kedavra_!"

And promptly fell to the floor, screaming in pain.

The Boy-Who-Lived laughed even harder. "Man, it's so easy to rile you up!" He wiped his eyes. "The Killing Curse requires a lot more power than you've got right now, Tommy boy! You can barely hold yourself together as it is."

Tom snarled as he slowly got to his feet. "Don't. . . call me. . . that filthy muggle name. I. . . am Lord Voldemort! The. . . greatest sorcerer. . ."

"Oh please," Potter rolled his eyes. "Not that tripe again! Even old man Dumbledore's more powerful than you are. . . and I don't even _like_ the old bastard. . ."

Tom frowned slightly. _Potter doesn't like Dumbledore?_

The sudden sound of a song interrupted his thoughts. Looking up, he saw a brilliant red and gold bird sail through the air, carrying something in its claws.

It dropped the ragged thing it was carrying at Potter's feet and landed heavily on his shoulder, staring at Tom with its beady eyes.

"That's a phoenix. . . with. . . with the old school Sorting Hat?"

It was Tom's turn to laugh now. "This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A songbird and an old hat! Do you feel _brave_ , Harry Potter? Do you feel sa. . . ?"

He gaped as the Boy-Who-Lived pulled out a gleaming silver sword from the hat, its handle glittering with rubies the size of eggs.

"You were saying something, arsehole?" Potter said with a smirk.

Tom snarled at him. _This is how he wants to play it? Fine!_

He turned around to regard the statue of Salazar Slytherin. **"** ** _Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four!"_**

Tom shot the Boy-Who-Lived a nasty smirk as he heard the sound of a massive body hitting the stone floor behind him.

 ** _"Kill him!"_**

His smirk grew wider as the basilisk moved towards the foolish brat, standing casually with the sword in one hand. Any moment now he was going to be. . .

His mouth fell open in shock.

Instead of attacking Potter, the basilisk began to coil around him. It took Tom a moment to realize that the giant snake was curling around him protectively, as if trying to shield him from harm.

Tom threw his arms up to cover his eyes just as the basilisk turned its deadly gaze upon him. He had no idea if it could affect him in this state, but he had no desire to take a risk either.

 ** _"Looks like he's not completely useless. Thank Merlin!"_**

Tom's jaw dropped further when he realized that it was Potter who spoke.

 _ **"You speak Parseltongue?"**_ He asked in shock.

 ** _"Forget what I said about the useless part."_** Tom could almost _feel_ Potter roll his eyes. **" _How else do you think I got us down here, you miserable wanker?"_**

Tom gritted his teeth. **"** ** _How are you doing this? How are you controlling the basilisk?"_**

"I'm not _controlling_ anyone, you idiot. Sephiria is her own person, something you'd know if you'd ever bothered to talk to her." Through the gaps of his fingers, he saw Potter turn to address the basilisk directly. **_"Sephiria, meet gobshite. Gobshite, meet Sephiria."_**

 ** _"I would ssssay it issss a pleassssure, but that would be liesssss,"_** the basilisk hissed.

"She's something else, isn't she?" Potter smirked.

Tom could hardly believe this was happening. The basilisk was actually an _intelligent_ creature? And Potter was on familiar terms with it? His mind raced a thousand miles a minute.

"How. . . ?" he asked weakly.

"How did I set all this all up?" Potter chuckled. "Oh Tom, Tom, Tom. . . you're such an arrogant little piece of shite, you know that? Did you really believe that you were the only one to ever locate the legendary Chamber of Secrets in the last _one thousand_ years? Did you really think you were the only Parselmouth to walk the halls of Hogwarts since Salazar himself?" He shook his head disdainfully.

"Scores of Slytherin's descendants have been in Hogwarts in the last thousand years, and quite a few of them managed to find the Chamber as well. I managed to locate the Chamber in my first year itself." Tom nearly choked in disbelief.

"I honestly had no idea of what I was going to find down here. I certainly wasn't expecting to run into a rather bored thousand-year-old magical serpent. It took some time, but sneaking down here regularly with large amounts of roasted meat helped me convince her that I just wanted to talk. Believe it or not, she's quite the conversationalist."

 ** _"I do not ussssually partake of cooked food. But when you live asss long assss I have, you learn to exssssperiment."_**

Potter sniggered softly. "See what I mean?"

Tom could barely process it all. "But. . . but it's just a _beast_! It. . . it shouldn't be able to. . . ."

The Boy-Who-Lived shook his head again. "Bloody hell, you're really dense aren't you?"

" _Think_ , you moron! This ' _beast_ ' has been living inside a magical castle for the last thousand years. Did you really think that she wouldn't have developed sentience by now?"

"Then there's all the attacks. Didn't you find it the least bit strange that _none_ of the kids ended up dead? I mean, what are the odds that every single one of them wound up petrified, huh?"

"You wanna know why? It's because she was never _meant_ to kill the students here, you plonker! All that garbage about ' _cleansing the school of filth_ ' is just that. . . garbage written by a bunch of pureblood supremacists like you. Slytherin created the Chamber as a final defensive measure for this school against outside invaders, to _protect_ the bloody students!"

"Unfortunately, Slytherin also put an enchantment to bind her to his bloodline, just in case she went rogue after his death. Your orders to attack the students ended up clashing with her other orders to protect them, so she ended up simply petrifying them instead."

"That cannot be true!" Tom snarled. "That beast is no protector! It has killed before. . ."

"Yeah, on your orders." Potter glared at him. "Myrtle's death was purely accidental, and it ended up activating another fail-safe that put her to sleep for the next three decades and put the chamber under lock-down. Didn't you ever wonder why you never managed to open it again after that?"

Tom grit his teeth. Truth be told, he had tried several times to open the Chamber after that, but it had never responded. It was this desperation that gave him the idea to pour his memories into the diary, so that he could access it in the future.

But that was irrelevant. He had bigger problems right now.

 ** _"I am the Heir of Slytherin,"_** He hissed at the basilisk. ** _"I order you to kill this fool!"_**

 ** _"I do not take orderssssss from you, inssssssolent whelp."_** The creature snarled.

 _ **"As the Heir, I command you. . . !"**_

"Oh, stow your crap!" the Boy-Who-Lived said. "In my presence, Sephiria isn't going to take orders from you. After all, you're just a fragment of a soul. . . I'm a living, breathing human being with an _intact_ soul. Not to mention I have more magical blood in my veins than you do."

Tom felt his heart clench with fear. It was over, he had no more cards to play. The Boy-Who-Lived had out-maneuvered him completely.

Not only did Potter have Slytherin's basilisk on his side, he also had a magical sword and Dumbledore's phoenix. Tom had a wand he could barely use, and there was still time before Ginny's life force was fully drained.

Time. He needed to buy more time.

"Potter. . . w-w-wait," Tom stammered. "D-Don't do anything you might regret. It's not too late. . . join forces with me! I can give you power. . . I. . ."

Potter merely chuckled derisively. "Sorry, Tommy boy. There's nothing you've got that I would possibly want."

His expression became hard. "Remember this as you go to your demise, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Your death is going to feel like paradise compared to what I'm going to do to Voldemort."

Tom fired off a few curses at the Boy-Who-Lived in desperation. They merely bounced off the basilisk's armored hide as the massive creature coiled itself around Potter protectively.

"Hey Tom!" Potter shouted. "Riddle me this: what happens when a soul container gets drenched with basilisk venom?"

Tom felt a dawning sense of horror as he realized what the Boy-Who-Lived was planning.

Potter threw the diary high into the air. With unbelievable speed for a creature of that size, the basilisk lunged upwards and chomped down on the diary.

Pain filled each of his senses. Pain unlike anything Tom had faced ever before. He felt as if his body was being torn up from the inside, his veins were filled with molten metal; worse than the Cruciatus, worse than anything he'd ever experienced. . . .

Tom Riddle met his end in sheer agony.

* * *

The basilisk spat out the remains of the diary. **" _That wassss disssgusting!"_**

 ** _"Yeah, sorry about that,"_** Harry muttered, as he checked on Ginny. Satisfied that she was going to be fine, he quickly stunned her.

 ** _"What will you do now?"_** Sephiria asked quietly.

 ** _"Prepare your 'corpse',"_** he said. Quickly conjuring a snake, he used an engorgement charm on it until it was forty feet long and then stabbed it to death with Gryffindor's sword. A quick signal to the phoenix and Fawkes pecked out the dead snake's eyes.

 ** _"That lookssss nothing like me,"_** Sephiria pointed out.

 ** _"Doesn't have to,"_** Harry replied. **" _No one knows what you look like except for me and Fawkes, and neither of us are going to talk."_**

 ** _"Besides, I doubt anybody'll come close enough to investigate. I sealed off the tunnel with a blasting curse before I came in."_**

That really was the best idea that Harry could come up with. There was more than one entrance to this place that he knew of, which kind of made sense. Salazar Slytherin would never build the main entrance to his chamber under a girl's bathroom, assuming there even _was_ plumbing in the walls a thousand years ago.

 ** _"Hmmm, it sssseemsss you think of everything, Little SSSSSSpeaker,"_** the basilisk mused.

 ** _"Of course I do,"_** Harry scowled as he caked his robes with grime and dirt, tearing it in a few places to make it look like he'd just been in an epic battle of sorts. **" _And stop calling me 'little'."_**

 ** _"Grow bigger then,"_** the basilisk said grumpily, as she made her way back to her nest in the statue.

Harry rolled his eyes at a bemused-looking Fawkes. "Must be her time of the month. . . whatever the heck _that_ means. . ."

The Boy-Who-Lived pocketed the ruined diary and strode over to the unconscious Weasley. Fawkes came to rest on his shoulder, and the strange group disappeared in a burst of flame.

* * *

 **AN: So yeah, I wrote this in a single night, and it came out rather hurried.  
**

 **Do let me know what you think, people! Remember, I rely on your feedback to improve my writing.**

 **Sephiria the basilisk has an important role to play towards the end of the story. Tracey Davis' encounter with the diary will be explained in the chapter featuring Daphne Greengrass.  
**

 **Also, if Harry comes off as slightly OP in this fic, it's because Voldemort is much more powerful and intelligent than he is in Canon. Harry's going to need everything he's got to to defeat the bastard without half the country winding up dead. Keep reading to find out why :)**


	12. Law and Order

_He looks just like James, but he's got Lily's eyes._

This was Amelia's first thought when she laid eyes on Harry Potter for the first time in her life.

She had been Head Girl when the Marauders had first entered Hogwarts, and even as a bunch of first-years they had done enough to drive everyone, teachers and prefects alike, up the wall. Amelia supposed she should consider herself fortunate that she'd only had to deal with them for a single year, if the stories of their antics that had reached all the way to the Ministry were any indication.

The Marauders had been legendary pranksters of Hogwarts and James Potter, as their leader, had a reputation unsurpassed by any other student of his batch; except perhaps for his wife Lily, one of the smartest witches Amelia had ever met.

But this was no time to be taking a trip down the memory lane. Right now she had a job to do.

Right now she was Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Right now she was sitting in the Hogwarts infirmary, recording the statement of Harry James Potter, primary witness to the abduction of Ginny Weasley (and her rescuer as well, if the girl was to be believed). With the Headmaster acting as his guardian and counsel for the questioning, Amelia listened as the Boy-Who-Lived recounted the tale of what had transpired in the Chamber of Secrets.

A few minutes of conversation was enough to convince her that the boy's resemblance to his father was merely superficial. While James would have used this opportunity to make a dozen inappropriate jokes, Harry was polite and level-headed. He answered her questions to the point, elaborating wherever necessary and never skimping out on details. Amelia could honestly say that this was one of the most pleasant interrogations she'd ever conducted, if the subject at hand wasn't so serious.

She glanced at her notes. In all honesty, Amelia didn't begrudge the open display of surprise on her colleague Kingsley Shacklebolt's face. Had she not been the one conducting the questioning, she would never have believed half the things the boy had told her.

But the truth in his statement was unmistakeable. Well, whatever little truth there was anyways.

Amelia Bones was no fool. More than a decade of work with Law Enforcement had taught her quite a bit about spotting lies. While she couldn't exactly state which part of the Boy-Who-Lived's statement was false (since the _entire_ story was so incredible), she could tell with certainty that he wasn't being completely honest with her.

What confused her the most was why? What did _he_ have to hide?

* * *

"I need you to come clean with me on this one, Albus!"

"My dear Amelia, whatever do you mean?"

"Albus, please!" Amelia snapped. "I've been dealing with criminals and liars longer than that boy has been alive! It's plain as day to me that he's not being completely honest with us!"

The old wizard merely twinkled his eyes at her. "Oh? Pray tell, which part of his statement do you believe are lies, Amelia?"

"If I knew that we wouldn't be _having_ this conversation." She let out a sigh. "Albus, please. This is a Ministry investigation now! I need you to speak with the boy and tell him to come clean with me."

"I am very much aware that this is a Ministry investigation, Amelia. The very same investigation I have been requesting Cornelius for since the last few months." There was a hint of steel in the Headmaster's voice. "It saddens me to note that the Ministry did nothing when _four_ of my muggleborn students were attacked, but jumped at the chance to close the school the moment a child from a well-known pureblood family went missing."

Amelia winced slightly. Truth be told, Dumbledore's accusations were not that far from the mark. She herself had seen the Headmaster make frequent trips to the Minister's office since the first attack on Halloween, begging for assistance, but Fudge had simply brushed it off. It was only after Luna Lovegood, a girl from a minor pureblood house, had ended up petrified that the Minister ordered the DMLE to investigate the matter.

But even that had merely been a lot of eyewash. Fudge had specifically assigned Dawlish and Proudfoot, two aurors with zero experience in investigation (but a lot of experience in brown-nosing), to the case. He had even overridden Amelia when she'd volunteered to investigate the attacks personally, citing conflict of interest since her niece was a student at the school. This had quickly proven to her that Lucius Malfoy was involved in the case somehow, since an idiot like Fudge wouldn't even know what ' _conflict of interest_ ' meant.

"That's not fair, Albus," she said quietly.

"You are right. It is not. My sincere apologies, Amelia." Dumbledore sighed tiredly, stretching back in his chair. "It was not fair of me to blame you. It has just been a most _tiring_ day."

"I'll say. . . ." Amelia muttered. While not the longest interrogation she had ever conducted, it was definitely one of the most mentally exhausting.

Listening to both children recount what sounded like a horror story made Amelia feel sick to her stomach; and to think that this had all happened when Susan was here. . .

"You are right, of course," Dumbledore spoke suddenly. "Harry is most certainly not being honest with us." He smiled indulgently at her. "While I may not have the benefit of your experience, I _have_ spent decades dealing with liars of a different variety. I know a well-spun yarn when I see one."

"Then why aren't you doing anything about it?"

"Because I _trust_ Harry, Amelia," he said matter-of-factly. "I trust that he has a good reason for lying, one that I hope he will share with us in time." He smiled slightly at her disbelieving expression. "Does it help if I say that Fawkes agrees with me on this?"

Amelia raised an eyebrow. "What does your familiar have to do with this?" She glanced at the scarlet and gold bird surveying her majestically from its perch.

"A lot actually. Permit me to let you in on a little secret." Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. "Contrary to what most people believe, Fawkes is not my familiar."

Amelia blinked in surprise. "What?"

"It is true. To say that he is my familiar implies ownership of some sort. Fawkes never has belonged to me, and nor do I believe ever will. Of course it is true that he is much closer to me than to any other human," the bird trilled as if in agreement, "but Fawkes ultimately belongs to this school."

"What about the story that he bonded with you during your fight with Grindelwald?" Amelia asked curiously.

"It is true that he provided invaluable assistance to me during the duel, without which I do not believe I would have survived. I have, however, never bonded with him; nor have I ever had the pleasure of finding a familiar." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "No, in my lifetime I have only known of two wizards with familiars: Lord Voldemort. . . and Harry."

Amelia's eyes widened in surprise. "Harry Potter has a familiar?"

"Oh yes, a rather beautiful snowy owl. I doubt Harry knows though; he merely considers her an exceptionally intelligent owl." Dumbledore chuckled softly. "But I digress. As I was saying, Fawkes is bonded to the castle itself, has been so for several centuries if I understand correctly. Very few professors and students have been fortunate to gain his attention though."

"My point is that as long as Fawkes is bonded to the castle, he would under no circumstances allow any student or teacher to do anything that would endanger the school as a whole in his presence. Since he was _with_ Harry during the whole ordeal, it leads me to believe that whatever it was Harry did in the Chamber did not pose a threat to anyone in the school; I might even go so far as to say that Fawkes approved of his actions, if his behavior is anything to go by."

The phoenix trilled happily, as if in confirmation of Dumbledore's deductions.

"I don't know, Albus," Amelia said slowly. "You're asking me to take a lot on the word of a magical bird." She was humbled that Dumbledore would choose to share such a secret with her, since everyone knew how much the old warlock relied on the phoenix to reinforce his ' _Leader of the Light_ ' image. But the nature of her work had long since given her a rather cynical outlook on life.

"I'm asking you to take _my_ word on this matter, Amelia. I trust Harry. . . and I am asking you to place your faith in me and trust him as well."

Amelia bit back a retort on Dumbledore's tendency to trust people who didn't deserve it. While she didn't necessarily trust the man as far as she could throw him, she did have faith in the old man's devotion to the school. She knew that whatever else he may be, he was not the kind of person who would endanger the life of his students needlessly. There was a reason why Voldemort had never dared to attack Hogwarts even at the height of the First War.

Besides, it wasn't like this was some Death Eater spawn they were talking about. This was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. The very fact that he was being accused of doing something Dark would be enough to make her a laughing stock of the entire Ministry. Not to mention that he had, for all intents and purposes, just rescued the daughter of a respected Light family from certain death.

Also, if Amelia were to be perfectly honest with herself, she had far bigger concerns at hand.

She glanced at the tattered diary sitting on Dumbledore's desk. A sick feeling welled up within her.

"Is that. . . ?" she hesitated, dreading the answer.

"I believe so," Dumbledore said gravely.

Amelia closed her eyes in anguish. She'd heard the rumors about Voldemort still being alive, but she'd never believed them. . . or rather, she'd never _wanted_ to believe them. Her brother Edgar, his wife, heck her entire family had been massacred in a raid personally led by that monster himself. Only the fact that the family house-elf had the presence of mind to escape with the infant Susan had saved her niece's life.

She didn't want to believe that he was still out there, but the undeniable proof was sitting right in front of her.

"I'm going to give this to the Unspeakables," she said quietly. "They're the only ones who can get something useful out of this thing."

"I'm afraid that wouldn't be a very good idea."

"Albus, you cannot be serious!" Amelia was outraged. "We need to find out what we can. . . !"

"I am in agreement with you on that, Amelia," Dumbledore said quietly. "But we cannot risk this kind of information falling into the wrong hands. Or have you forgotten about Augustus Rookwood?"

She grimaced slightly. Augustus Rookwood had been one of the Ministry's most well-known Unspeakables. The revelation that he was a spy for the other side in the last war had been a PR nightmare.

"Right now, this information needs to kept within a small circle." Dumbledore glanced at the offending object wearily. "We still need to determine how many are there, after all."

Amelia's jaw dropped. "You think he made _more_ than one?"

"I am quite certain," he answered, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Tom Riddle was one of the most gifted, but also one of the most arrogant students to ever walk the halls of Hogwarts. I am confident that he would have never stopped at a single horcrux. His ego would never allow it."

Amelia closed her eyes in despair. Creating one was bad enough, but making _more_ than one?

Something else occurred to her. "How did Lucius Malfoy get a hold of one of these?"

"My best guess is that Voldemort gave it to him for safe keeping. Whatever Lucius may say, he _was_ one of Voldemort's inner circle members, and his father Abraxas had been one of Voldemort's earliest benefactors."

Amelia nodded thoughtfully. "Are you sure it was Lucius who slipped the diary to Ms Weasley?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Harry, Mr Weasley and Ms Weasley supplied their memories of the day in question. I checked them myself, it was indeed Lucius who planted it amongst her schoolbooks."

Amelia clenched her fists in rage. To think that bastard actually planted that. . . that _detestable_ object on an eleven-year-old girl! She longed to wring his neck with her bare hands.

"Tell me Amelia, if Lucius Malfoy were to be brought to trial, how certain would we be of getting a conviction?"

She snorted. "You're assuming we'd be able to _get_ him to trial, Albus. Pensieve memories are not acceptable as court evidence, thanks to the law that plonker pushed through after the war. Then there's the fact that all three witnesses are minors, which makes their testimony ineffective. Even if we get Harry onto the stand, Lucius' lawyers will still claim that he's biased due to his well-known rivalry with young Draco Malfoy. Add to that the fact that Fudge will never allow his ' _good friend Lucius_ ' to be accused of anything and well. . ." She shook her head exasperatedly.

Dumbledore nodded in understanding. "I surmised as much. Very well, we shall remember to hold this over him the next time he tries to push through any unsavory laws in the Wizengamot. One thing I _will_ do, however, is call an emergency meeting of the school Board of Governors and request for his immediate removal." His blue eyes hardened in anger. "I will never allow that man to have a say in the running of this school ever again."

"I think Augusta will like that. She's been trying that for years," Amelia said wryly. She got to her feet. "I'd best get going, Albus; and I'm taking the diary with me."

"By all means, but be careful Amelia. If Voldemort so much as suspects that you know anything about this, you will be in grave danger."

She waved his concerns aside. "The target on my back can hardly grow any bigger. But I'll make sure to update the wards on the manor, just in case."

"Please do so. Oh, and would you be kind enough to inform Cornelius to release my gamekeeper from Azkaban?"

"I'll see to it personally," Amelia replied. She would enjoy the look on the fool's face when he realized how badly he'd screwed up. Amelia was quite sure she wouldn't want to be in Cornelius Fudge's shoes the next time he met Albus Dumbledore face to face.

"Oh, by the way, Albus. . . you wouldn't happen to know why Gilderoy Lockhart flooed into my office a few months ago, completely naked and looking like he'd been hexed six ways to Sunday, begging me to throw him in Azkaban, would you?" She glared at him through her monocle.

The old Headmaster merely smiled at her, eyes twinkling as he popped a piece of candy into his mouth. "My dear Amelia, I am sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

* * *

Amelia took another sip of the strong brandy.

Merlin, if she'd thought that last year was bad, this year had been even worse!

Sirius Black, the man her department had been obsessively hunting for the entire year, was innocent. Not only had he _not_ betrayed the Potters as everyone had believed, but Peter Pettigrew (the man he'd _supposedly_ murdered) had turned out to be alive and well, and was apparently the real traitor!

And to top it all off, both these men had been in a school full of children the entire time!

Sometimes, she really wondered if the entire universe was out to get her.

She took off her monocle and rubbed her eyes blearily. It was fortunate that Dumbledore'd had the presence of mind to floo her before informing Fudge about it, even though the Minister had still been within Hogwarts at the time. Between her position as Head of the DMLE and his authority as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, they had quickly interrogated Pettigrew under veritaserum and gotten everything on parchment. It had later proven to be a very prudent course of action, since Fudge had, predictably, tried to sweep the whole thing under the rug and even attempted to have Black Kissed on the spot.

It had taken a whole two hours to convince the idiot of the truth. Amelia had never been happier for Dumbledore's political genius when he suggested that the whole matter be reported as a travesty of justice due to the previous administration's corruption. It gave Fudge the positive publicity he wanted, and everyone went home happy.

That hadn't been the end of it, though. The public outrage over an innocent man spending twelve years in Azkaban had been immense, and naturally heads had rolled. Since former Minister Bagnold was long dead, the blame for the entire fiasco was laid squarely at the feet of Amelia's old boss Bartemius Crouch, who was barely able to hold onto his position as Head of Department of international Magical Co-operation. Amelia privately believed that the only reason Fudge let him keep the position instead of giving him the sack was because of the upcoming Quidditch World Cup and Triwizard Tournament. Everyone knew that in Crouch's absence both the events would go to hell since Ludo Bagman was practically useless.

She sighed softly. Truth be told, she blamed herself partly for all this. Amelia had always prided herself on her investigative skills. She should have realized something was wrong when she couldn't find the transcripts for Sirius Black's trial. She had assumed back then that they had simply gotten lost somewhere in the archives.

It had never occurred to her that it was because Black had never gotten a trial to begin with.

A part of her still couldn't believe that law-abiding Barty Crouch could do something like that. Surely someone would have noticed something! Surely someone would have asked that Black be brought before the court of public opinion to answer for his crimes against the Potters! But that hadn't happened. . .

She shook her head. Honestly, who was she kidding? The end of the war had been the worst kind of chaos she'd ever seen. Voldemort's defeat at the hands of the baby Harry Potter had been so sudden that it had taken both the Ministry and his followers completely by surprise. Amelia still remembered how long it took for everyone to establish what had actually happened at Godric's Hollow. Once his defeat _was_ confirmed however, the entire Wizarding community had exploded into a frenzy of celebration that had the Obliviators working overtime for weeks.

Amelia herself had spent the aftermath of the war buried in paperwork. Having been recently promoted to the position of Head Auror (due to the previous head being KIA), she had been much too busy making sense of things to even attend any of the Death Eater trials. She liked to think that she might've done something about Black had she been there.

Then Crouch had been kicked out after that controversy with his son, and Amelia had found herself the youngest head of the DMLE in the last two centuries. Life had only gotten more complicated since then.

She smiled softly as her eyes alighted upon the thank-you note from Harry Potter she'd gotten a few days ago. At least someone had benefited from all this.

Harry Potter. That boy was really something else altogether.

Amelia remembered a similar note she'd received last year from the Boy-Who-Lived, thanking her for all her help and asking if she could do something about Rubeus Hagrid's expulsion from Hogwarts fifty years ago. He'd pointed out quite correctly that the very fact that the teenaged Lord Voldemort was involved in the matter was grounds for an investigation.

What had really amused her was the subtle threat in the letter. The Boy-Who-Lived had casually pointed out that there was a ' _rumor_ ' that Fudge had uttered the words " _the Ministry has to be seen doing something_ " while arresting the Hogwarts gamekeeper.

Amelia had taken a great deal of vindictive pleasure in watching Fudge's face pale when she quoted those words at him. In a matter of days, Hagrid's expulsion had been overturned and he was allowed to carry a wand again. Dumbledore went one step further and offered him the position of Care of Magical Creatures Professor at the school, on the condition that he took his OWLS and NEWTS for the subject during the break.

Amelia had slowly started to understand why Susan seemed to like Harry Potter so much. Like her aunt, Susan was a Hufflepuff to the core. She respected those who were loyal to their friends, and if the story about the Lovegood girl was to be believed, then the Boy-Who-Lived was practically fanatical in his devotion to his comrades.

It helped that Amelia greatly approved of his actions regarding the half-giant. She herself had always had a soft spot for the kind-hearted gamekeeper from her own school days. Watching the man accept his new wand gratefully had brought tears even to her eyes.

Still, Amelia Bones didn't get to where she was by taking things at face value. Her curiosity piqued, she set out to discreetly investigate the Boy-Who-Lived.

She found some rather. . . interesting things.

Using her position as Head of the DMLE, she had managed to discover the boy's address, unsurprised to find it classified at the highest level. She _was_ surprised, however, to find some very powerful wards erected at Harry's muggle residence. After consulting with a few cursebreaker friends, she discovered that they were in fact blood wards, wards made from an obscure branch of magic; little known but very, _very_ powerful. What made these wards all the more impressive was that they were intent-based, meaning that someone who meant no harm to any of the inhabitants could simply stroll through them, but as for someone who had malicious intentions. . . well, let's just say there wouldn't be enough left of them to fill matchbox.

There was only one person Amelia knew of who could deal with such ancient magic: Albus Dumbledore.

What was even more interesting was that not only had Dumbledore gone out of his way to personally cast the wards around the Boy-Who-Lived's home, he had also used his authority as Chief Warlock to seal the wills of _both_ his parents. She found this last detail to be rather suspicious, and since she couldn't hope to access the wills without tipping off Dumbledore she sent one of her most trusted trainee aurors, Nymphadora Tonks, to investigate the place.

Her report had been. . . _disturbing_ , to say the least.

While Tonks couldn't find any concrete evidence of abuse, it was plain to see that Harry's relationship with his relatives was far from ideal. From what she saw, while there was no open animosity between the family members it was clear that they went out of their way to avoid each other.

So Amelia had decided to check the records from the local bobbies. This was where things started getting murky.

Petunia Dursley nee Evans, sister to Lily Potter nee Evans, had a clean record. Her son however, had been detained twice for causing a public nuisance, and the reports from the local psychiatrist painted a less than flattering picture of the rather obese boy.

But it was the report regarding the late Vernon Dursley that really put her on edge.

Petunia's husband had died in an accident early 1989. The police record, however, showed that the late Vernon had been quite a character. He had been arrested thrice in his youth for drunken disorderly conduct and even accused of violent behavior at his old workplace, though nothing had ever been proved. The very fact that Harry Potter had spent eight years living under the same roof as such a man sent shivers up her spine.

Some of the gossip Tonks had picked up from local housewives didn't help to assuage her fears in the slightest. Apparently, the Dursleys had spent the last few years telling their neighbors that the Boy-Who-Lived was a hardened lunatic, and had been attending some institution called St Brutus.

Amelia had noted how Tonks' expression had hardened when she'd delivered that part of her report. It had taken a great deal of patience for her to sit her auror down and explain why hexing the Dursleys was a bad idea; a task complicated by the fact that Amelia dearly wished to do it herself.

A part of her sincerely wished to get the Boy-Who-Lived away from that place, powerful protection or no. But with Harry Potter personally assuring her auror that he was absolutely okay with his current arrangements (apparently he'd discovered her presence on the third day. . .the boy had _marvellous_ instincts), there wasn't really much she could do. As much as she also wanted to confront Dumbledore on the whole issue, she found she couldn't do that either. The sly old man usually had excellent reasons for what he did, even if he did have an annoying tendency to play his cards rather close to the chest sometimes.

In the end, Amelia decided upon a wait-and–see approach. With Sirius Black now a free man, the time that Harry Potter spent with those obnoxious muggles would be greatly reduced. As long as Dumbledore didn't actively prevent Sirius from getting Harry's custody, she wouldn't interfere. But if he tried to poke his crooked nose into the Boy-Who-Lived's personal affairs, then she wouldn't hesitate to take him down. . . even at the cost of her career.

She owed the boy that much.

* * *

"Thank you for joining us, Amelia."

"Don't mention it, Albus." She took a seat, nodding at the other two. "Lord Black, Mr Potter."

"Director Bones," they both curtsied.

Amelia took a deep breath. She usually hated being the bearer of bad news, but this was something she didn't trust anyone else to do.

Sitting in the office of the Hogwarts Headmaster, she explained in detail about the interrogation of Barty Crouch Jr who had been caught three days ago in the castle impersonating one of her former colleagues. While normally she wouldn't have allowed the young Potter to sit in on something as sensitive as this, she felt that this was something he needed to hear given that nearly everything they'd uncovered pertained to him.

She told them about Crouch's escape from Azkaban, his casting of the Dark Mark during the Quidditch World Cup using Percy Weasley's wand, his reunion with his Master and his role in subduing the real Moody and taking his place at Hogwarts.

"How did he manage to enter Harry's name into the tournament?" Sirius interrupted. "Because I seriously doubt that a simple _Confundus_ charm would have done it."

Amelia nodded approvingly. She fished out a simple silver ring from her bag. "We believe he used this to circumvent the wards around the Goblet."

"This is interesting," Dumbledore said, as he examined the ring. "May I?" At Amelia's nod, he ran his wand over the object, muttering a few incantations under his breath. "Remarkable. Tthe ring seems to have some extremely powerful enchantments placed on it. Not only does it give its wearer the power to disrupt simple wards, it also amplifies the strength of whatever spells the caster uses for a short amount of time."

"He used this to get past the Goblet's wards? Albus, I thought you cast those wards yourself," Sirius said skeptically.

"Alas. . . the wards I used were only of medium strength, designed to keep out errant students. They were not designed to stand against a Dark wizard of such skill and power."

"Our analysts believe that the ring's magic interfered heavily with the magic of the Goblet, making its user's spells all the more effective," Amelia said quietly. "I'm afraid that there really was no way to stop him once he got started."

"Well that's just great," Sirius growled. "We've got a bloody Death Eater, who used a ring probably enchanted by Voldemort himself, entering my godson's name into this thrice-damned tournament!" He shook his head in disgust. "Please tell me there's a way to get him out of this contract?"

"I have spent the last three days consulting the best cursebreakers I know," Dumbledore said tiredly. "I am afraid that short of destroying the Goblet of Fire, there is nothing that we can do."

"Well, destroy it then!" Sirius snapped. "Or are you saying that my godson's life is worth less than some stupid cup to you?"

"I am saying nothing of that sort, Sirius. If that was what it truly took, I would have willingly destroyed the Goblet myself. The problem," Dumbledore sighed, "is that the Goblet is a seven hundred year old magical artifact. With such ancient magic at play here, we have simply no way of knowing what would happen to all four of the champions upon the Goblet's destruction. At best, nothing may happen; at worst however, it may lead to their demise."

Everyone in the room winced slightly.

"That's assuming that we're _allowed_ to destroy the Goblet of Fire," Amelia pointed out. "That artifact doesn't belong to us, it's jointly owned by the British, French and Bulgarian Ministries with the ICW handling its storage when not in use."

Sirius rubbed his face with his hands. "In simple words: there's _nothing_ we can do."

Amelia glanced at the Boy-Who-Lived. The teenager had been extremely quiet throughout the discussion, and even now his face was set in a neutral expression.

She licked her lips slightly. She didn't like what she was about to propose in the slightest, but there honestly wasn't any other option on the table.

"If I may. . . I think we should let Harry participate in the tournament. Just hear me out for a minute, Lord Black," she spoke quickly as Sirius opened his mouth in consternation. "We know Voldemort is behind all this, and we all know how he's not the kind of person to give up easily. I think we should prepare Harry as much as we can and let Voldemort make his move. That gives us a better opportunity to get to him."

"Out of the question! We are _not_ going to use my godson as bait to lure that wanker out of hiding!" Sirius thundered. "You've got Barty Jr, right? Why don't you use him?"

"Don't you think we tried? The moment we found out that his father was involved, we sent a team to investigate Crouch Manor."

"What happened?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

Amelia took a calming breath. "We found Barty Crouch Sr's body in his bedroom. There was no one else in the house, but the place showed definite signs of someone else having lived there for quite some time. If Crouch Jr's information was correct, Pettigrew and his master had been there since the summer. My guess is they murdered the elder Crouch and escaped to another hiding place when they didn't hear back from Crouch Jr immediately after the Halloween feast."

"So Barty is dead. . ." Dumbledore mumbled, sitting back heavily in his chair. He ignored Sirius' mumble of " _Good riddance!_ " and fixed Amelia with a piercing glare. "Did Barty Jr mention _how_ he intended to deliver Harry to Voldemort?"

She shook her head tiredly. "No, he said that his master left it up to him to devise the method. Personally, I think Voldemort made sure to leave this detail of the plan till the last second as a matter of precaution. As it was the plan was extremely risky. There was always a chance that Crouch might mess up and reveal that he wasn't the real Mad-Eye."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "He never did put all his eggs into a single basket."

Amelia nodded in agreement and looked Sirius in the eye. "That's why it's best if Harry decides to compete. It will lull Voldemort into a false sense of security, and we'll get him the moment he makes a mistake. I don't like this any more than you do, Sirius, but we simply don't have any options here."

Sirius opened his mouth to protest, but fell silent when Harry touched his arm. "Madam Bones is right, Sirius. I don't like it either, but we don't have a choice."

He looked Amelia directly in the eye. "I'll do it, Madam Bones; upon the condition that you increase the security for the tournament. I don't want any of the other champions or spectators getting caught in the crossfire."

Amelia smiled slightly at the Hufflepuffish attitude of the boy. "I'll make sure to post my best aurors around the school, Mr Potter. On that subject, since Mad-Eye probably won't be returning to the school, I was thinking about offering one of my aurors temporarily for the post. Would Kingsley Shacklebolt be alright for your needs, Albus?"

"That would be splendid, Amelia," Dumbledore said brightly. "You have my sincere thanks."

"Please don't mention it," Amelia said graciously. After all, it earned her a favor from the Headmaster and gave her an inside man in the castle who would keep an eye on her niece and report anything suspicious directly to her. Nothing wrong with having a side-benefit, after all.

"While we are on the subject," Dumbledore spoke to Harry, "I should inform you that Professor Flitwick has volunteered to tutor you on duelling tactics. Professor McGonagall has also offered her expertise in battle transfiguration, should you be interested."

"Minerva offered?" Amelia asked in surprise.

"Indeed," Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"I think you should seriously considering taking her up on that offer, Mr Potter," Amelia advised. "In all the time I have known her, Professor McGonagall has _never_ offered to personally tutor anyone. She's even turned down several requests from some of the most talented witches and wizards in the world."

"Wow. Is she really that good?" Sirius asked.

"Minerva McGonagall is the youngest person to achieve her Mastery in Transfiguration in the last four hundred years," Dumbledore said with a smile. "Her skill with the subject is probably greater than even my own."

"Explains why she was brought in as your replacement when you became Headmaster," Amelia said dryly.

"Indeed," Dumbledore nodded. "So, Harry what do you think?"

To his credit, the Boy-Who-Lived thought for a few moments before nodding decisively. "I'll do it. I'll take part in the Tournament. I also humbly accept Professor Flitwick's offer, and I'll make sure to discuss things with Professor McGonagall first thing tomorrow morning."

"Excellent," Dumbledore said happily.

Everyone stared pointedly at Sirius. The young Lord shrugged. "I don't like it, but if that's what we have to do get Snake-face and that rat into the open, then that's what we'll do." He nodded at Amelia. "Remus Lupin and I will keep in touch with you, Amelia."

"That will be fine. In the meantime, I must ask that whatever was discussed in this room stay between the four of us. You may bring Mr Lupin up to speed if you wish, but that's all I can allow." She looked directly at the Boy-Who-Lived. "Harry, I'm going to have to ask you to keep this quiet from everyone, including your friends. Anyone asks, tell them that you have no idea whatsoever."

The boy nodded.

Amelia looked at the teenager barely older than her Susan, walking willingly into a trap set by the worst Dark wizard ever known. "Good luck with the tournament, Harry. Be on your guard."

* * *

"Mr Potter!"

"Madam Bones." "Director."

"Lord Black," she nodded to Sirius before turning to the lad who had just exited Courtroom Ten. "Would you mind accompanying me to my office, Mr Potter? I'd just like to have a quick word."

The Boy-Who-Lived nodded and turned to his guardian. "Go ahead, Sirius. I'll floo home by myself."

"You're welcome to use the one in my office," Amelia offered.

Sirius smiled at her. "Thanks, Amelia." He squeezed his godson's shoulder and walked away.

Amelia led the boy into her office. "Would you like some tea and sandwiches, Mr Potter?"

"Yes, thank you. And please, call me Harry."

Amelia put up her strongest privacy wards and locked the door. "When it's just us, it's _Amelia_. I insist."

For a few moments there was silence as they both sipped their tea. Then Amelia spoke up.

"I wanted to apologize for everything that happened down there, Harry. You just had the misfortune of seeing the worst side of the British Wizarding Society. I hope you understand that this isn't all there is to our Ministry." She sincerely hoped that Harry Potter wasn't going to throw up his hands and just move to France after this. Their country needed _him_ a lot more than he needed _them_.

To her relief, the Boy-Who-Lived smiled. "Think nothing of it, Amelia. I've seen enough by now to know not to judge the whole lot because of a few bad apples." He sipped his tea. "What was that all about, anyways?"

"I can't say. Like you, I was caught completely off-guard by the sudden change in time and venue." She peered at her cup thoughtfully. "I can't tell for sure whether that little dog and pony show was for your benefit or mine; but it's safe to say that whatever Fudge was hoping to accomplish today, he failed miserably."

"What _was_ Fudge hoping for exactly? Did he think I wouldn't show up on time and he'd be able to expel me _in absentia_?"

Amelia laughed at that. "Merlin, no! Even Fudge wouldn't be stupid enough to do that. He'd be lynched by the public!" She set her tea cup down. "Regardless of what the Prophet's been saying against you, at the end of the day you're still a national hero. If Fudge were to expel you. . . well, you could simply attend Beauxbatons or any other magical school. Fudge, on the other hand, would forever carry the black mark of being the Minister who chased away the Boy-Who-Lived to a foreign country."

She peered thoughtfully at the young man before her. "My best guess is that today's display was a show of strength from his administration. The last couple of months have raised several questions about his leadership in the Ministry. Several people are convinced that the smear campaign against you and Dumbledore is just Fudge's way of dealing with his insecurities."

"You're saying he's jealous of. . . what, our _popularity_?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Simply put, yes. Fudge is one of those politicians who rely a lot on their approval ratings, Harry. Those numbers are the only thing that matters to him. . . apart from the size of his bank balance, of course." She gave the teen a wry smile. "Even during his early days in the Ministry he was terribly insecure, always taking umbrage at those who outshone him, however temporarily. The way I see it, nothing much has changed."

The Boy-Who-Lived shook his head in disbelief. "The worst Dark Lord this country has ever seen is back. . . and Fudge is worried about _approval ratings_."

Amelia sat up straighter. "That was another thing I wanted to talk to you about. Dumbledore told me about what had happened, but I was hoping I could hear it from you. Would you mind if I viewed your memory of the night in question?"

Harry's expression suddenly became guarded. "You have to understand. . . there are some things I cannot talk about. . . _cannot_ , not _will not_ , mind you. . ."

Amelia nodded and took at a small pensieve. "Just give me what you can."

Harry put his wand to his temple and withdrew a long silvery strand which he placed in the the golden bowl. Amelia promptly dived in.

She emerged a few minutes later. Wordlessly she walked over to a nearby cabinet, pulled out a decanter and poured herself a glass of brandy. After swallowing it to steady her nerves, she looked the Boy-Who-Lived in the eye.

"Dare I ask who your mysterious companion was?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm under oath not to reveal his identity. I can assure you, however, that he's definitely on our side."

She noted his use of the word ' _our_ '. "Those explosions were his doing, I presume?"

He nodded quietly.

"Did any of the Death Eaters survive?"

Harry shook his head. "I cast a _Homenum Revelio_ before I left. There was no one alive. I'm sorry, Amelia."

She waved his apology aside. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Harry. It was either you or them, and you did what you had to do to survive. It's like we always tell our aurors at the Academy: _'Do what you can to finish your shift and go home'_. I'm just glad you're alright."

She took a deep breath. "I recognized a few of them. All those witches and wizards have been reported missing since that night." She grimaced slightly. "I guess it's plain now what happened to them."

Amelia sat back at her desk and rubbed her eyes tiredly. "I wanted to trace the portkey and check out the crime scene, but the Minister wouldn't let me. Instead, he put my people on crowd control and guard duty. Since it was the only way to convince him not to send for a couple of Dementors for his _'security'_ , I had no other choice but to agree."

The Boy-Who-Lived snorted in disbelief. "He wanted to bring Dementors to the school even after everything that happened the last time? Is he insane?"

"Yes, yes. . . I'm starting to think he is." She ran her hand over her face in disgust. The crime scene was probably contaminated by now. All that evidence. . . lost. . .

"Speaking of which, I didn't see Lucius Malfoy over there. He wasn't at your hearing either. Any idea why?"

Harry smirked at her. "Mr Malfoy and I have reached an understanding of sorts. I convinced him to. . . ah, ignore his master's call should something like this ever happen."

Amelia was stunned. "You convinced Lucius Malfoy to side with _you_?"

"He's not on _my_ side; he's just not siding with Voldemort," the Boy-Who-Lived pointed out.

In Amelia's mind, that was almost the same thing. Convincing Lucius Malfoy to sit on the fence in the middle of such a conflict was more than anyone could hope to manage. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What did you offer him?"

"Nothing. Honestly, Amelia I didn't offer him anything," he said at her disbelieving expression. "We just had a small family get-together, and I convinced him that it's be in his best interests to stay out of everything."

Amelia sighed in understanding. She'd completely forgotten that Malfoy was actually related, however distantly, to the teenager sitting before her. But to use such a distant familial connection to convince Lucius Malfoy to keep his sticky fingers out of this whole mess. . .

The boy was more intelligent than she gave him credit for.

"What are your plans for now, Harry?" she asked carefully.

"For now. . . I guess I'm just going to keep my head low. Try not to get into any more trouble," he shrugged.

She looked at him in open disbelief. "You've managed to convince _Lucius Malfoy_ to sit on the fence, your godfather is a Lord of the Wizengamot, you yourself have quite a bit of political clout. . . and you expect me to believe that you'll just walk away after everything that's happened so far?"

"What do you expect me to do. . . start a _coup_ against Fudge or something?"

"Yes," Amelia said quietly. "Yes, that is exactly what I expect you to do."

The Boy-Who-Lived gaped at her, but Amelia was relentless.

"I wasn't born yesterday, Harry. I know you haven't exactly spent the last four years at Hogwarts playing around. You've made connections, befriended important people: the Greengrass sisters, young Neville Longbottom, my Susan. . ." She sighed softly. "For Merlin's sake Harry, even your girlfriend is the eldest daughter of the French Foreign Minister and heiress to one of Magical France's oldest families. So please, don't tell me that someone as ambitious and influential as you is going to take this lying down."

The Boy-Who-Lived chuckled appreciatively. "I'm starting to see why Sirius respects you so much." He shook his head. "You're right, Amelia, I have no desire to take anything Fudge throws at me lying down. But I'm not going to do anything just yet."

He sighed softly. "It's true that I could easily get Fudge booted out of office by the weekend if I really wanted to. But I won't, for a number of reasons." He held up his fingers. "Firstly, if I got Fudge kicked out right now, the current political climate would create instability in the Ministry that Voldemort won't hesitate to take advantage of. It's true that he doesn't have any followers with him right now, but he's nothing if not adaptable. Secondly, if I got Fudge kicked out when he's busy squealing that Dumbledore's trying to take over the Ministry, even his most vocal opposition would sympathize with him; heck, the public might even decide that he's right and Dumbledore really _is_ a power-hungry old geezer. Thirdly, a man like Fudge is only as strong as his toadies; the tosser's spent the last few years getting his people into the most important positions in the Ministry. Even if we get rid of Fudge, he'll still have influence left here. He might even worm his way back into an unimportant position and cause trouble just for the heck of it."

"No, if we're going to do this, we're going to do this right. Fudge goes, his toadies go. . . we turn the Ministry on its head and start over from scratch. We completely clean house and remove all the undesirables. That, Amelia, is my plan."

Amelia shook her head in silent wonder. The boy was spot on with his observations. It was incredible to think that a boy her niece's age could be so smart.

 _Merlin, they grow up so fast these days. . .  
_

"Since you've planned so far ahead, Harry, I'm guessing you've already decided upon Fudge's replacement?"

The Boy-Who-Lived smirked at her. "I have, actually. I've discussed it a lot with both the Headmaster and my godfather. She's a rather young Department Head; hardworking, honest, respected, perhaps the only high ranking official in the Ministry whose hands aren't stained with bribes and has a really good head under fire. With Voldemort's return, she's _exactly_ the kind of Minster we need."

He leaned forward eagerly. "I think _Minister Bones_ has a pretty nice ring to it, wouldn't you agree?"

Amelia spent the next few minutes gaping wordlessly like a fish. Then her brain kicked in.

"Harry. . . you. . . you can't be _serious_!?"

"Course not, Sirius is my godfather," he grinned. "I'm Harry."

"That's. . . that's not. . ." Amelia sputtered. She took a deep breath. "Harry. . . please. . . I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but I'd much rather remain with the DMLE."

"And I'd much rather be in France with my girlfriend, preferably on a clothing optional beach. But war has a way of changing things."

She glared at the cheeky brat. "You don't understand. The DMLE _needs_ me!"

"Is this about your budget problem?" he asked quietly.

"How do you. . . ?"

"You said it yourself, I'm a very well-connected bloke. Tell you what: if I told you of a way to solve your budget problem, would you seriously consider my proposal?"

"Explain!" Amelia barked.

The Boy-Who-Lived grinned. "In a few days, Lucius Malfoy is going to make a most generous contribution to one of Fudge's legislations for increasing regulations on werewolves. Unfortunately, a week later important papers regarding the law will end up getting ' _lost in the system_ '," he made quotes in the air, "along with the bank account information. Since Fudge isn't going to admit that he just misplaced his biggest political ally's money, the matter will simply be buried until he can get back to it."

"The money's in a bank account in the name of a shell company. Rather than simply let the money sit in the vault accruing interest, I was hoping you could put it to good use."

"You expect me to _embezzle_ money to pay for my aurors' equipment?" Amelia was outraged. _The sheer bloody nerve!_

"I expect you to do what it takes to ensure your people _survive_!" Harry said sharply. "Or are your _morals_ more important to you than the lives of your aurors?"

Amelia reared back as if she'd been slapped. How _dare_ he imply such a thing? Did he even know to what extent she'd gone to ensure her people's well-being!? She was about to rail at him when he sighed loudly.

"My apologies, Madam Bones, I was out of line. I guess the stress of the day is finally getting to me." He smiled sadly at her. "It's hard to remain objective when it's your loved ones' lives on the line."

Amelia frowned for a second, then her expression cleared. "You're worried about Auror Tonks."

The Boy-Who-Lived nodded tiredly. "She's part of my family. She's the closest thing to an older sister I've ever had. I will do anything, _anything_ to protect her." He stared unflinchingly into her eyes. "Tell me Amelia, how far would _you_ go to protect someone you love?"

Amelia felt her respect for the young man rise. Even after everything he'd been through, his concern was still for the safety of others.

 _Perhaps the Hat made a mistake. He should have been a Hufflepuff. . . .  
_

"I have it on good authority that Voldemort's busy recruiting fighters in the continent," he continued. "I've done everything I can destroy his support base here, but it won't mean anything if he comes back with two hundred killers-for-hire. The Ministry doesn't have the sheer numbers to deal with that, and it's too late to train up any new aurors right now: they'll just end up as cannon fodder." He shook his head. "You _have_ to focus on bolstering your existing forces. Get them the best armor, the highest quality equipment. . . whatever they need to make it to the end of the war alive. It's the only thing you _can_ do, Amelia."

She nodded slowly. Once again, he was spot on in his assessment. No matter what anyone thought, they were going into a war. If Amelia wanted to avoid a repeat of the First War, she had to do whatever she could to ensure her aurors would survive the fighting.

Also, if she had to be honest with herself, the idea of using Malfoy's money to bolster her forces appealed to her, considering the bastard was responsible for many of her budget cuts. It seemed like poetic justice of sorts.

Amelia suddenly recalled something. "That law's author, Dolores Umbridge, is going to join Hogwarts this year as the DADA instructor. You might want to watch out for her."

Harry frowned. "Umbridge? That toad woman sitting next to Fudge?"

Amelia chuckled slightly. "Yes, her. She's one of Fudge's most fanatical supporters. I daresay she might even be joining the school to specifically target you."

The Boy-Who-Lived smirk was positively feral. "Leave her to me, then. I'll make sure she's taken care of."

Amelia suddenly realized she didn't want to know what he meant by having her ' _taken care of_ '. She found, to her surprise, that she didn't much care either. There were bigger concerns.

"What about Fudge's other supporters? Do you have a way of dealing with them?"

His smirk widened. "Tonight, one of my house-elves will drop off a stack of papers at your home. In it, you'll find most of the information you need to take them down. . . bank statements, records of illegal deals. . . everything I could get my hands on. Use it to build your case. We'll take 'em all down at the same time."

She felt her heart sink. "That could take months!"

"You have one year," the Boy-Who-Lived said, to her shock. "By our estimate, Voldemort's going to make his move on the Ministry in a year from now. Use that time to build to airtight cases against Fudge and his cronies. When Voldemort reveals himself next year. . ."

"How are you so sure that he's going to reveal himself by the next year?" Amelia prompted.

Harry smiled at her. "Ask Professor Dumbledore, he'll tell you. It'll help you make sense of a lot of things, like why Voldemort's obsessed with me and everything."

Amelia was really curious now, but she could sense that he wasn't going to give her anything. Not right now, anyways.

"I'll. . . bear it in mind, Harry. You've given me a lot to think about for today."

"Glad to hear that." The Boy-Who-Lived got to his feet. "It's almost time for lunch. I'll take my leave now. Take care, Amelia."

* * *

Amelia practically collapsed in her chair as Harry Potter exited her office via the floo.

Merlin, things were moving so fast!

 _Minister!?_ _Her_ as Minister? She wanted to laugh hysterically. Harry-bloody-Potter wanted her to be Minister for Magic within the next year!

Insane. That boy was absolutely bloody insane!

Then there were all the things he'd asked her to do. She mentally reviewed everything they'd discussed since he entered her office.

He was really making her work for it, wasn't he?

She sighed tiredly. A few years ago, she'd have jumped at the chance to become Minister for Magic and set their country right, but that was before she knew how the world ran.

Power plays, politics, corruption. . .

Merlin, she was so _tired_ of it all!

She honestly wanted nothing more than to wait for Susan to finish school, grab an early retirement, move to some nice place in Europe (preferably Switzerland) and live out her days with her niece (and hopefully some grandchildren as well).

 _But war has a way of changing things._

He was right. By Merlin, he was _right_! Her dreams of a happy, safe future were ruined the moment that monster returned. There was no point in thinking about all that now.

But could she do it? Could she honestly live up to everyone's expectations?

Even with the damage Harry Potter caused to Voldemort, politically and otherwise, it was going to be an uphill battle. Their enemy knew where they lived, after all. What was that saying. . . winning a war takes almost everything you have; losing takes it _all_.

She glanced at the photo on her desk. A picture of herself with her arms around a young girl's shoulders, that happy smile on the child's face. . .

 _Susan. . .  
_

Sometimes she wondered if she'd have managed to live this long without her niece. After losing Edgar and the rest of her family to the First War, Susan was all she had. If it weren't for her, Amelia would probably have wound up dead in a gutter somewhere, lying amongst a dozen fallen enemies. . .

The Boy-Who-Lived's words echoed in her mind. _How far would you go to protect someone you love?_

Her eyes hardened in determination.

 _As far as it takes._

* * *

 **AN: Woohoo! This is it! My chance at writing one of the most popular (and my personal favorite) characters of Harry Potter fanon :)  
**

 **How d'you guys think I did? Reviews, people!**

 **This chapter also contains a shout-out to one of my favorite HP writers on this site: Old-Crow. Seriously people, check out his stories. His depiction of Amelia Bones is simply incredible.  
**

 **So yeah, as you've all noticed, just because Harry's smart doesn't mean that everyone else is an idiot. The adults (and Dumbledore in particular) are far more perceptive than even he realizes.**

 **Dumbledore's first meeting with Fawkes will be expanded upon. I'm also planning on showing his duel with Grindelwald. Trust me, it'll be worth the wait.**

 **Gilderoy Lockhart's fate will be shown in a later chapter (Hint: it wasn't Harry).**

 **Special thanks to ObsessedWithHPFanFic and wildbeast1498 for faithfully reviewing each chapter.**


	13. The Price of Betrayal

**AN: Warning: this chapter contains scenes of torture and extreme violence. If that's not your cup of tea, I suggest skipping it.**

* * *

There were days when Peter Pettigrew simply _despised_ his life.

This was definitely one of them.

He hated that he'd been born as a wizard, he hated that he'd had to go to Hogwarts, he hated that he'd befriended James Potter and his two bookends, he hated that he'd been bullied into taking the Dark Mark, he hated that he'd become Secret-Keeper for the Potters, he hated that he'd been forced to live as a rat all those years. . .

. . . he hated that he'd been stupid enough to stay in Britain when _he_ was still alive.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-just-wouldn't-bloody-die, the bane of his existence!

Sometimes, Peter wondered just what he'd been thinking, camping at Hogwarts even after Harry Potter had arrived.

The son of two people who he'd sold out to the Dark Lord, and the godson of the man who'd been sent to Azkaban in his stead was waltzing around the school. . . and like an idiot Peter had _stayed_ there, right underneath his nose, when the smart thing would have been to simply run away.

But no...he just _had_ to stay didn't he?

Twelve years of laziness had dulled his instincts, lulled him into a false sense of security. He'd gotten so used to sleeping in soft mattresses and eating three heavy meals a day at the Burrow and Hogwarts, that he'd thrown caution to the wind and decided to kip out right under the blasted boy's bed!

Also, if Peter had to be honest with himself, he'd also been just a wee bit curious. He'd really wanted to see what kind of a boy Harry Potter really was. Who knew how that information may turn out to be handy in the future?

After observing him closely for a year, Peter was honestly surprised.

It was plain to see that young Harry had inherited his looks (and Quidditch skills) from his father. His personality, however, was almost like his mother's. The intelligence, the cold calculation behind his actions. . . all of it was pure Lily.

And that terrified him.

Peter would readily admit (despite being a Gryffindor) that there were lots of things that he'd feared. He'd feared the Dark Lord for his sadism, he feared Albus Dumbledore for his power, he feared Sirius Black for his cruelty. . . .

But the one person Peter feared above all others was _Lily Evans_.

Weak wizard he may have been, Peter had always been a very good judge of character. Days into his first-year he had recognized James and Sirius for what they really were, a bunch of self-righteous bullies. Recognizing the danger from such people, he had quickly adapted and become their friend (though he was mostly just a lackey). It was also why he was one of the few people around who knew. . . _actually_ knew Lily Evans.

To James and Sirius she had always been the rule-abiding Teacher's Pet, to Remus she was a fellow intellectual Gryffindor, but Peter alone saw her for what she was.

Lily Evans was a pragmatist. An incredibly _ruthless_ pragmatist.

Lily Evans was definitely the most enigmatic person Peter had ever known. She was beautiful. intelligent. . . a kind-hearted girl who didn't mind going out of her way to help people. But beneath that beautiful smile lay a temper and an unparalleled icy ruthlessness.

One thing that set her above anyone else was her extremely practical outlook on life. Lily saw things the way they were, not through rose-tinted glasses like the rest of them. She knew when to try for peace or when to fight violence with violence, and never let her personal beliefs get in the way of doing what needed to be done.

But the reason Peter feared her so much was that she could hold a grudge better than anyone he knew.

Peter recalled one of the more infamous raids the Order had been on. During an attack on a Death Eater safe house they'd run across Dylan Rosier (older brother to Evan Rosier), one of the Dark Lord's deadliest enforcers. Dylan was also one of the Death Eaters responsible for the murder of Mary Ashton, one of Lily's muggleborn friends from Hogwarts.

Upon seeing him, Lily had broken off from the group and duelled Dylan personally. Being twenty years older than the young witch and having a huge arsenal of Dark curses at his fingertips, his victory seemed like a foregone conclusion.

Lily ended up sweeping the floor with him.

Using her superior stamina to draw out the battle as long as she could, Lily attacked him with a simple but devastatingly effective combination of fifth-year level charms and curses that threw the senior Death Eater completely off-balance. Finally nailing him with a simple tripping jinx, she sent the older wizard flying with a Banishing charm and, in one simple fluid motion, severed all four of his limbs with a powerful cutting curse before he could hit the ground.

Then, before he could pass out from the blood loss, she cast two complex medical charms on him. The first one increased his blood's density, reducing the flow, while the other forced him to stay conscious despite his injuries.

It took Dylan Rosier an hour to die.

This fight cemented Lily's reputation as one of the most dangerous (and certainly the most ruthless) fighter on the Light side. Her effortless beat-down of one of the Dark Lord's strongest lieutenants turned her into a legend and gave her the nickname of the ' _Bleeding Lily_ '. It became so bad that the Dark Lord personally targeted her and James in later battles, and each time they somehow managed to escape.

This was the reason why, when Peter had heard of the Dark Lord's defeat, the first thing he'd done was to confirm Lily's death. He had no real fear of James: he was too much of a Golden Gryffindor to actually hurt him. Sirius was much too easy to provoke into doing something rash, and Remus would take months to recover from the emotional blow of having his friend betray him to do anything effective.

Lily, however, would've hunted him to the ends of the earth.

Which was why he had chosen to pin the blame on Sirius and make his escape by faking his death, why he'd chosen to spend twelve years of his life as a pet rat. . . .

Even in death, he was afraid of Lily Potter.

After all, Peter was quite sure that she'd never really trusted him as much as the others. He even remembered her irritated expression when James had suggested the Secret-Keeper switch at the last second. For all he knew, she might've made some arrangements of her own in case she didn't make it.

And Harry just _had_ to go and take after her. . .

He remembered that night in the Shrieking Shack, those bright emerald orbs looking at him with such hatred and anger. He had been sure that he was going to die that night, but fortunately the Boy-Who-Lived's desire to get justice for his godfather had overrun his thirst for blood.

But after Sirius had been freed, his usefulness was over. Peter didn't believe for a second that he was going to survive his stay in Azkaban. One of the inmates would certainly kill him, provided one of the aurors didn't arrange for an ' _accident_ ' first.

Naturally, he'd escaped. He'd left England behind and gone to the only person who he felt would help him. . . his former master.

* * *

Evading those incompetent aurors sent to escort him to Azkaban had been easy. The journey to Albania and the subsequent search for the Dark Lord had been anything but.

Peter honestly had no idea why he'd gone looking for the Dark Lord in the first place. He could've gone to any country in Europe, but for some reason his feet took him to Albania. He supposed he'd need the Dark Lord's protection should Harry Potter and Sirius Black decide to come after him sometime in the future. He also supposed that he'd felt just a touch angry that his comfortable lifestyle had been interrupted by those two insufferable Gryffindors.

So he did what his master ordered him to. He stole an infant from the village for the dark ritual to give his master that rudimentary body, he stood back and watched as Bertha Jorkins' corpse was fed to the Dark Lord's familiar, he kept guard over Crouch Sr until their unplanned escape from the manor, he snuck up behind Harry Potter in the graveyard in his rat form and felled him with a blow to the head, he gave his right hand to create a new body for his Lord, and sat back and watched the duel of his master against the blasted boy who'd ruined his life.

Once again, everything went to hell.

The first explosion had taken Peter completely by surprise; so much so that he'd instinctively transformed and scurried up a tree. It was only after he got himself under control that he looked around for his master amongst the wreckage.

What he saw surprised and horrified him more than anything else he'd ever seen.

The half dozen Death Eaters who'd answered their master's call were dead; their pieces scattered all over the graveyard. And as for the Dark Lord. . .

The Dark Lord was lying on the ground, writhing in pain, as Potter and another cloaked figure stood over him. They were holding him. . . _him_ of all people under the Cruciatus!

At this, Peter merely turned tail and ran.

He didn't know how Potter did that and he didn't _care_! What he did know was that that blasted boy had an ally that was powerful enough to exterminate the Dark Lord's forces and overpower him completely in a matter of _seconds_.

Peter wasn't going to stick around to face such a frightening bloke.

* * *

When Peter had managed to get his hands on a newspaper after two whole days of hiding as a rat, he had been stunned.

That boy. . . that Merlin-damned boy had given a statement that _Peter_ had kidnapped him from the Third Task to sacrifice him for some dark ritual! The article went on to explain how he'd colluded with former Death Eater Karkaroff to portkey him away from Hogwarts to some remote location, and that Potter had managed to escape after duelling him.

The Dark Lord wasn't even mentioned.

Peter had almost fainted in shock. His entire plan had backfired spectacularly. Instead of returning to a position of power by the Dark Lord's side, he'd become the Ministry scapegoat. The article was blaming for everything: from Potter's forced participation in the Tournament to the chaos at the Third task.

To make matters worse, they had included his picture and general description, including the fact that he had a silver right hand. His gift from the Dark Lord had become his undoing, since there was no way to disguise the hand without attracting undue attention.

So Peter ended up spending the next four days scurrying around the countryside in his rat form. The fact that he'd been outed as an animagus meant that he could no longer even think about going to any magical areas, and even the muggles had wanted posters of him pasted all over the place. The only way to stay safe now was as a rat in non-magical areas.

At least, that's what he'd thought anyways.

He'd barely had time to register the shadow looming over him when something grabbed him by the tail and lifted him clean into the air. Before he could even think about transforming back into human form, he was lifted fifty feet. He kept going up when, at a height of about one-hundred and fifty feet, his attacker let go.

He plummeted to the ground. Knowing full well that he had no choice, Peter transformed just before he hit the ground with a sickening crash.

The last thing he saw before the blinding pain overtook his senses was a rather familiar pair of white wings.

* * *

That had been almost a week ago.

Sitting alone inside a darkened, obviously warded cell, Peter worried about his predicament. While it was good that his mysterious assailant had been kind enough to heal his injuries, the fact that they'd completely neglected to feed him put him in a really bad way.

Just as he was wondering who his captors were and whether they intended to starve him to death, the door creaked open.

In the darkness, Peter could make out a single figure making his way over to him. He crouched in a corner, doing his best to make himself look inconspicuous.

"Wormtail, Wormtail, wormy wormy Wormtail," the figure said in a sing-song voice as it approached his trembling form.

A small lantern flared to life, throwing the face of his captor into sharp relief. Peter's heart sank when he saw pair of very recognizable green eyes.

"Hello, Wormtail," the Boy-Who-Lived said cheerfully. "How are you doing?"

Peter cowered in fear. He could see straight through that happy demeanor. No way was he getting out alive _this_ time!

"You know, you're a rather difficult man to reach, Wormy," Potter said conversationally. "You'd think that a man with a silver hand would be easy to catch once you've plastered his face all over every single magical and muggle newspaper in the country. I guess it's pretty amazing that you managed to avoid me for as long as you did. Hid yourself in your rat form, didn't you?"

"Then again, that was why I had all that information printed." He grinned at Peter's shocked look. "I knew that being outed as an animagus meant that you wouldn't be spending much time in the magical part of the country, and the only way you could survive in the muggle world was in your rat form. I simply needed you to spend more time as a rat than as a human."

The Boy-Who-Lived's grin became positively feral now. "You'd be surprised just how smart post owls really are; _my_ owl in particular. All I had to do was tell Hedwig to keep any eye out for rats with silver paws, and she managed to track you down in four days. Amazing, isn't she?"

He leaned against the wall casually. "So, here you are now. I wonder, whatever shall we do with you?"

Peter gulped in fear. Whatever it was that the devil-child had thought up for him, it wasn't going to be good.

"Oh, I know," Potter said brightly. "I'll have you help me out on a small errand. It's the least you could do after enjoying my. . . _hospitality_ for the last week."

"W-w-what. . . s-sort of. . . h-h-h-help. . . ?" Peter stammered in terror.

"Oh, you'll see. It'll be very enjoyable, I assure you. Well. . . enjoyable for me, at least."

Peter couldn't take it anymore. He threw himself at the boy's feet. "P-P-Potter. . . H-H-H-Harry. . . p-please. . . please don't. . . ."

"Oh, come now, Wormtail. Don't be such a spoilsport. It'll be fun, I swear!"

"Please," Peter was openly weeping now. "Please. . . l-let me go. . ."

"Ah. . . I see I don't have much of a choice then." Peter allowed himself a small glimmer of hope, which was ruthlessly squashed the moment Potter smirked. "I'm calling in the life-debt you owe me, Wormtail."

Peter flinched slightly as he felt a small tug on his magic. It was done now, there was no going back. His own magic would force him to do whatever the boy asked him to, even if it should cause his death. "W-what do you want?" he asked in a defeated tone.

"Like I said, I want you to help me out on a small errand. For the next twenty-four hours I want you to obey my orders without question. You do that and I'll consider the debt paid in full."

"Then. . . then I can go?" The wretched wizard asked hopefully.

The Boy-Who-Lived's smirk widened. "Why not? Assuming you _survive. . ._ you can go free."

Peter gulped in fear at those ominous words. "W-W-Where are we going?"

Potter's grin threatened to split his face in two. "We, my dear Wormtail, are going on a treasure hunt."

That was the last thing Peter heard before the Boy-Who-Lived's boot came swinging out, knocking him out cold.

* * *

" _Rennervate!_ "

Peter stirred weakly, blinking his eyes to take in his surroundings.

"Had a nice nap, Wormtail?"

Peter sat up slowly and looked around.

They seemed to be in a cave of some sort. Judging from the sound of water close by and the smell in the air, they were pretty close to the sea.

Potter was standing in the middle of the cave, his wand held high as he turned slowly on the spot, examining the walls and ceiling.

"Well, this is the place," he said.

"H-How do you k-know?"

"The magic is rather. . . familiar," he said quietly.

For a moment Peter considered running away, despite the sharp pull on his magic dissuading him from doing so. With his weakened condition, however, he doubted he'd get far before his captor dragged him back. Deciding to wait until an opportune moment showed up, he slowly got to his feet.

It was then that he felt the collar around his neck. "What's this?"

"Hmmm. . . ." Potter said absently. "Oh, that's an enchanted collar. I based it off the manacles aurors use while escorting prisoners to Azkaban. It's got the usual charms: anti-apparition, anti-portkey, anti-animagus. . ."

The mention of Azkaban made Peter wince slightly. "W-Why am I here?"

" _We_ are here to pick up something that belongs to your master. Something that I want."

"The Dark Lord?" Peter asked sickly. They were actually robbing the _Dark Lord_?

"That's right. This," he gestured around him, "is merely the antechamber, the entrance hall. We need to find a way inside."

Potter approached the wall of the cave, touching it with a puzzled frown. After a few moments of walking back and forth, his expression cleared.

"Yes," he said quietly. "That'll do it. Wormtail, come here."

Peter silently obeyed, walking to stand beside him but out of arm's reach.

"Put your hand on this wall, right here."

"Here?" he asked, gingerly putting his left hand on the indicated spot as, half-expecting the wall to suddenly grow teeth and bite him.

"That's right. Keep it steady now."

Peter looked at him in confusion as he drew his wand. "What. . . ?"

" _Diffindo!_ "

Peter screamed in pain as the weak cutting curse struck his hand with enough force to neatly sever two fingers. A small fountain of blood burst forth from his severed appendages, drenching the wall.

"Excellent," the Boy-Who-Lived exclaimed as a blazing silver outline of an arch appeared in the wall. The blood-spattered rock within it simply vanished, leaving an opening into what seemed like total darkness.

"Well, let's get going then."

"W-Wait. . ." Peter hollered.

"What?"

Peter indicated his ruined left hand, which was bleeding rather profusely.

"Oops, I forgot," Potter said with fake regret. "Here, lemme fix that for you."

He gratefully held out his injured limb.

" _Incendio!_ "

Peter screamed in anguish as he fell to the ground, thrashing around in panic to put off the flames. He beat at his left hand wildly as the fire exacerbated the pain in his ruined appendages.

"Well, at least it's no longer bleeding now," Potter said cheerfully.

Peter cradled his left hand with tears in his eyes. The sheer intensity of the flames had cauterized his wounds, leaving behind blackened stubs where his last two fingers used to be.

He got to his feet, sobbing miserably, as Potter nudged him with his foot and beckoned him to follow.

The inside of the cave made Peter shiver with fear. They were standing on the edge of a great black lake, so vast that he could not make out the distant banks, in a cavern so high that the ceiling too was out of sight. A misty greenish light shone far away in what looked like the middle of the lake, reflected in the completely still water below. The greenish glow and the light from Potter's wand were the only things that broke the blackness, though its rays did not penetrate as far as he would've liked.

"You see that," Potter said quietly as they walked around the edge of the lake. "That's our destination. The object we seek is there."

"We. . . we have to go _there_?" Peter asked fearfully. He didn't want to go any further than they had to.

"Of course," Potter laughed. "How else would we retrieve it?"

"Couldn't you. . . couldn't you just try a Summoning Charm?" he suggested weakly.

The Boy-Who-Lived stopped so suddenly that Peter almost walked into him. "Check out the big brain on Wormy," he said with mock-admiration. "Fine, let's try it. _Accio!_ "

With a noise like an explosion, something very large and pale erupted out of the dark water some twenty feet away; before Peter could see what it was, it had vanished again with a crashing splash that made great, deep ripples on the mirrored surface. Peter leapt backward in shock and hit the wall; his heart was still thundering as he turned to Potter.

"What was that?"

"Your master's sentries," the Boy-Who-Lived said with an amused look. He gestured to the edge of the lake. "Take a look."

Clutching his injured hand to his chest Peter slowly inched towards the edge of the black water. In the light of the sole wand, he saw something that nearly made him faint in shock.

The lifeless eyes of a woman looked back at him as she floated gently on the surface. Her robes and hair swirled around her in an eerie manner.

Inferius! There were _Inferi_ in the lake!

That was when Peter finally lost it.

He turned around and ran like the wind. To hell with life-debts, to hell with his magic, to hell with Potter, to hell with _everything_. . .

He wasn't going to go up against whatever horrors the Dark Lord had in store in this accursed place! He wasn't going to deal with Inferi for Potter's sake! He wasn't going to. . .

He barely reached the stone archway before a powerful spell struck him squarely in the back, and his world went black.

* * *

" _Rennervate!_ "

For the second time that night Peter felt himself return to consciousness. Groaning in pain he twitched on the ground for a few minutes before opening his eyes blearily.

"Really, Wormtail, you shouldn't go running around in the darkness like that," the Boy-Who-Lived said in a mock-scolding voice. "You could've seriously hurt yourself."

Peter groaned further in pain, cradling his injured hand to his chest. He was hungry, tired and in more pain than he ever remembered being in. He just wanted to lie down on the hard floor and slide back into unconsciousness.

A boot to the ribs dissuaded him of that notion, however. "Get up, Wormy. We're here."

It was then that Peter finally noticed his surroundings. They were no longer at the edge of the lake, instead they were in the middle of a small island. An expanse of flat dark stone on which stood nothing but the source of that greenish light, which looked much brighter up close. Peter squinted at it; at first, he thought it was a lamp of some kind, but then he saw that the light was coming from a stone basin set on top of a pedestal. Potter approached the basin and hesitatingly, Peter followed. He looked down into it to see that the basin was full of an emerald liquid emitting that phosphorescent glow.

"The object we're looking for is inside that liquid."

"Well. . . get it then," Peter whined. He wanted to get out of this dreadful place as soon as he could.

"If only it were that simple," Potter snorted. "This potion was made by your master. It can't be penetrated by hand or removed via any magical or non-magical means. The only way to get rid of it is to drink it."

Peter looked at him as though he were crazy. "You're going to drink something the Dark Lord made?"

"Of course not," the Boy-Who-Lived said. " _You_ are."

Peter eyes went wide with fear. "W-W-What. . . ?"

"I said," he conjured a small silver goblet, " _you_ are going to drink this potion for me."

"N-No. . . ."

"Wormtail, don't force me to. . ."

"No," Peter cried, falling to his knees. "Harry. . . please. . . don't make me. . ." he clutched the hem of his robes and sobbed. "Please. . .don't make me do this. . ."

The Boy-Who-Lived 's eyes gleamed in the darkness. "Stop that, Wormtail."

Peter only sobbed harder. "Please Harry. . . you're just like James. . . James wouldn't want you to. . ."

" _Crucio!_ "

Peter screamed in agony as a thousand hot knives seemed to burrow themselves into him. His nerves were on fire, his body felt like it was being submerged in molten metal, his blood was boiling in his veins. . .

After what felt like an eternity the pain stopped. Peter curled into a ball, weeping miserably.

"Never mention my parents again," the Boy-Who-Lived's voice was as cold as ice. "Is that clear?"

Peter nodded rapidly. A small part of his mind that wasn't gibbering in pain noted that the curse was far worse than anything he'd ever experienced, even at the Dark Lord's hands.

 _Just how powerful **is** he. . . ?_

Potter tossed him the goblet. "Drink it, Wormtail. . . before I _make_ you."

Tears streaming down his face, Peter hobbled over to the stone basin. With one last mournful look at a stone-faced Harry Potter, he dipped the goblet into the potion and lifted it to his lips.

Then he drank.

Almost immediately a numbing sensation started to grow over his mind. He felt disoriented, dizzy. . . and as he continued to drink his vision slowly became more blurry. The basin swam before his eyes, and the image shifted.

He was halfway through the third goblet when it happened.

 _The whole thing was like a dream. He was back at Hogwarts, sitting beside the lake with his friends: James, Sirius and Remus. But something was off; instead of the usual laughter and chatter all three of them were looking grim. Their gaunt faces gave the whole thing a very eerie feeling._

" _Why did you do it, Peter?" James asked quietly._

" _What?"_

" _Why did you betray us?"_

" _James. . . wha. . ."_

" _Why did you betray us, Peter?" James turned to look at him directly. Peter gasped and screamed, backing away in fear._

 _His face was like that of a corpse. His eyes were hollow sockets, his skin grey and mottled, his teeth decayed and his voice. . .  
_

 _Merlin, his voice was like **death**! Like a thousand damned souls were speaking together!_

" _Why did you betray us, Peter?" Not-James asked. "We were your friends."_

Peter screamed in pain and misery. He stumbled against the basin, unable to support his own weight. The goblet clattered to the ground.

" _Imperio._ Drink the potion. Drink until nothing is left."

With trembling hands, a glassy-eyed Peter Pettigrew reached for the goblet.

" _Why did you betray us?" Not-Sirius and Not-Remus joined in. They had surrounded him, cut off his escape._

" _We trusted you, Peter. We trusted you with our lives," Not-James said. "Why did you betray us?"_

" _James. . . I. . . I'm sorry. . ."_

" _My wife died because of you, Peter," Not-James said. "My son lost everything because of you."_

" _I. . . I. . ."_

" _I spent twelve years in Azkaban because of you, Peter," Not-Sirius said. "I suffered for twelve years because of you, Peter. All because of you."_

" _Sirius. . . please. . ."_

" _I lost my brothers because of you, Peter," Not-Remus said. "I lost them both because of you."_

" _Remus. . . please. . . I. . ."_

 _His three friends advanced on him, backing him further towards the lake. Its inky black waters were lapping at his feet._

" _Why?" Not-James asked._

" _Why?" Not-Sirius asked._

" _Why?" Not-Remus asked._

" _Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?"_

" _I DIDN'T HAVE A CHOICE," Peter bellowed. "I didn't have a choice, okay? He tracked me down. . . said he'd kill me. . . I didn't. . ."_

" _Then you should have died." Peter spun around to see an adult Sirius standing behind him. He looked exactly like he had that night in the Shrieking Shack. Starved, gaunt, almost wraith-like. . .  
_

" _You should have died rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you."_

 _Peter screamed._

"Please. . . stop. . make it stop. . ." Peter gasped as he collapsed against the basin. His grip on the goblet slackened.

A strong hand grabbed hold of him and pulled him upright. A moment later the goblet, full of potion, was pressed to his mouth.

"Drink," the voice commanded.

"No. . . please. . . ." Peter begged as the vile potion was forced down his throat.

 _The scene changed._

 _He was at Godric's Hollow near the kitchen table where he'd sat so often for lunch with his friends. But there was no Lily cooking at the stove, no Sirius playing with baby Harry, no James reading Quidditch magazines. . .  
_

 _Suddenly Peter heard a soft sound from one of the other rooms. He followed the sound upstairs to the nursery; the door was ajar._

 _He walked into the room. In a corner stood a woman with long red hair, cradling a baby in her arms. She was softly humming under her breath._

 _Peter was about to leave the way he came when she called out._

" _Peter."_

 _He froze. That voice. No, it couldn't be. . . not her. . .  
_

 _Not-Lily turned around slowly. She was like the others. . . a decomposing corpse. Her skin shriveled, almost blackened. Her eyes were hollow orbs of darkness._

" _Look at this, Peter," she spoke in that same horrific voice. "Look what you did to me. Look what you did to my son."_

 _Peter backed away, whimpering in fear._

" _Look at this," she held the bundle in her arms up to him. "Look at my baby boy."_

 _He tried to shut his eyes, but he couldn't. Instead he was forced to look at the proffered bundle._

 _Wrapped snugly in a blanket was the corpse of a toddler. The corpse of baby Harry._

" _You killed him, Peter," Not-Lily said. "You killed my baby. You killed my only son."_

" _No. . ." Peter sobbed. "No. . . I. . . I never meant. . ."_

" _My son is dead now," Not-Lily said simply. "James is dead. I am dead. Are you happy, Peter?"_

" _No!" he screamed. "No. . .Lily. . .I. . ."_

 _The maggot-ridden corpse of baby Harry suddenly jerked awake, bawling at the top of its lungs in the same horrific voice._

 _Peter shrieked in terror and bolted from the room._

"Please, please, please, no. . . not that, not that. . ." Peter mumbled.

The hand holding him steady didn't let up in the slightest. It continued to force the potion down his throat without pause.

"No more, please, no more. . ."

Another goblet-full of potion came up to his lips. Peter drank like a man dying of thirst.

"Make it stop, make it stop. . . please. . . I don't want to die!"

"I doubt you'll have much choice in the matter," the voice said coldly. "Keep drinking."

Another goblet-full of potion went down the condemned man's throat.

 _He was standing beside the grave of his mother. She had died, alone and forgotten, when he was in hiding those twelve years._

 _Suddenly, a rotted hand shot out of the earth and grabbed his leg!_

 _Peter lost his balance and fell. Screaming in horror he tried to drag his leg away, only to end up pulling the corpse clean out of the ground,_

" _Why did you do this to me?" the corpse of his mother howled at him. "Why?"_

 _Paralyzed with fear, he watched as she began to claw her way up his body._

" _They told me you died a hero," she shrieked. "They told me my son died a hero. Why did you lie, Peter? Why did you do this to me?"_

 _Completely panic-stricken, Peter kicked off the corpse of his mother and started to run._

" _Don't you walk away from me!" His mother bellowed. "Come back! Peter, my baby, come back. . . ."_

 _He ran as fast as he could but the graveyard was endless. He suddenly tripped and fell crashing to the ground. Groaning in pain he got to his feet. . .  
_

. . . _and froze at the sight that greeted him._

 _He was surrounded! Completely surrounded by those corpses! There were more than a dozen of them around him._

" _Why?" Not-James asked._

" _Why?" Not-Sirius asked._

" _Why?" Not-Remus asked._

" _Why?" Not-Lily asked._

" _Why?" the corpses of the muggles he killed during his escape asked._

" _Why?" Not-Bertha Jorkins asked._

" _Why?" an old muggle asked._

" _Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?"_

" _Get off me!" Peter screamed as they began to claw at him. Clutching at him, tearing at him, pulling him towards the ground. . .  
_

" _Make it stop!" he bellowed upwards at some unseen entity. "Make it stop! Please! I don't want to die! I don't want to die!"_

 _He was being pulled into the soft earth. The corpses were slowly dragging him with them into the ground, into the land of the dead. . .  
_

" _Someone help me!" he cried. "Someone! Anyone! I don't want to die!"_

 _The demonic voice of the dead baby Harry echoed in his ears._

After draining the last goblet, with a great rattling gasp, Peter Pettigrew hit the ground.

* * *

" _Rennervate!_ "

Peter's eyelids flickered. With a groan of pain, he found himself jerking awake.

His body felt like it had been trampled upon by a herd of giants. His breathing was labored, his limbs felt too weak to support his weight, his head was killing him and his mouth felt like rough parchment.

"Wormtail! So nice of you to finally join us in the land of the living!"

Peter opened his eyes and squinted at the looming figure of the Boy-Who-Lived.

"A fake," he sighed, casually spinning a locket in his hands. "All the trouble we went to, just to get hold of a fake. Such a waste." He looked down at the twitching form of the wizard at his feet. "Or maybe not completely a waste, huh Wormtail?"

"Water. . . ." Peter croaked.

"What's that? You're going to have to speak up for me."

"Water. . ."

"Yes, yes. Water. There's water all around us, I know. You only noticed it now?"

"Water. . . " Peter begged.

"Oh! You're saying you want water to _drink_. Why didn't you say so earlier, Wormtail? Here. _Aguamenti_."

Nothing happened.

"Hmmm. . . it would seem that something's interfering with the charm. But don't worry. Here," he fished around in his pockets and pulled out a bottle of water, "I'll give you some from my own emergency stash. I'm such a nice guy, aren't I Wormtail?"

Potter poured some water into the goblet and set in on the ground a few feet away. "There, water."

Peter dragged himself across the ground towards the goblet, his silver hand stretched out towards the container of the life-giving liquid. Just a few more inches and. . .

CLANG!

Potter's foot swung out, kicking the goblet to the ground. Peter watched in horrified dismay as its contents spilled all over the floor.

"Oops," the Boy-Who-Lived said, smiling nastily. "My foot slipped."

Peter felt his heart sink in despair.

"Here," Potter poured him another goblet-full of water, setting it even farther this time.

Peter crawled on his hands and knees like an animal, scrambling desperately towards the cup. He was being driven mad by his thirst, his body felt like it was on fire, his mind was on the verge of shutting down from all the pain. . .

But he had to get the water. Just another foot. . .

With another loud noise the goblet went flying. Peter desperately scratched the dirt, hoping to salvage a few drops of the precious fluid from the ground.

"Over here, Wormtail. You'll get it this time, I know you will." The Boy-Who-Lived set the goblet on the opposite end of the island.

Tears running down his cheeks, Peter desperately dragged himself across the cold hard ground. He no longer had the strength to even move his legs. He pulled himself across the ground with his silver hand, sobbing uncontrollably at his plight. He needed that water, needed it so badly! There was nothing he wouldn't do for even a drop of it! He stretched out his ruined left hand towards the cup, he was inches away. . .

Peter shrieked in pain as a large boot landed on his injured hand, crushing his remaining fingers.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Potter said quietly. "This desperation, this pain, this thirst. . . it's really something else, isn't it?"

"Why?" Peter sobbed. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why am I doing this?" Potter repeated in a voice that seemed to chill the very blood in his veins. "You _dare_ ask me _why_ I'm doing this." He ground his heel into Peter's destroyed hand, making him squeal harder. "You really don't get it, do you, Wormtail?"

"What you just experienced in the last nine minutes is how I lived my life for _nine years_ ," the Boy-Who-Lived thundered. "Nine years, Wormtail. For nine years I went through the same kind of pain _every single day_."

"Nine years I spent growing up inside a cupboard. Nine years I spent as a slave to a bunch of filthy excuses for human beings. Nine years I spent eating my cousin's leftovers out of the bloody garbage bin. Nine years I spent enduring taunts, beatings and snide comments for every single perceived slight. Nine years I spent believing my parents, my _brave honest_ parents, were a bunch of worthless drunks killed in a bloody _car crash_!"

"Do you know I used to crawl on my hands and knees just like you, Wormtail? Oh yes, my Uncle beat me, starved me and locked me in the cupboard for so long that there were days when I didn't have the strength to stand on my own two feet. I had to crawl like an _animal_ on the ground to get to the garbage bin to steal the leftovers; spoiled food which I'd later eat fearfully in my cupboard lest I get caught and thrashed again."

"And that's all _your_ fault!" Potter snarled, the very air around him crackling with magical energy.

"I should have been brought up by my parents, I should have had a happy childhood, I should have been surrounded by people who cared for me and my needs. . . ."

" _You_ took it all away! My parents, my childhood, my happiness. . . all gone because of your _cowardice_! And let's not even get started on what you did to my _godfather. . . ._ "

"Please. . ." Peter whimpered. "I'm sorry..."

"You're sorry? You're _sorry!_? _Crucio!"_

Peter screamed in pain as the Cruciatus curse struck him with an intensity he'd never felt before. His bones snapped as his body jerked violently, his blood was boiling, his nerve-endings were on fire, he was screaming so hard that his throat was raw. . .

"You think a ' _sorry_ ' is going to cut it after everything you did? You think a piece of trash like you even _deserves_ forgiveness? _Twelve years_ my godfather went through hell in Azkaban! For twelve years he was at the mercy of the Dementors, blaming and punishing himself for what he believed was his fault. Because he believed he failed my family by asking _you_ to be the Secret-Keeper, because he _trusted_ you! All those years Sirius and I suffered while you were fattening yourself over Molly Weasley's cooking, and all you've got to say is ' _I'm sorry_ '?"

"Please. . . ." Peter's voice was practically gone now. "I. . . didn't want to die. . ."

"THEN YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE FOUGHT IN THE WAR TO BEGIN WITH, YOU BLOODY WANKER!" Potter roared, his eyes glowing with unbridled hatred. "If you were so bloody _terrified_ of dying, then you should never have joined the Light side! You should _never_ have fought in the war! Nobody forced you to take up your wand, nobody forced you to join Dumbledore's bloody Order. . .you should have just packed your bags and left the country like most of the others did! But you didn't do that, did you?"

"No, ickle Wormtail wanted power. Ickle Wormtail thought it'd be just like his school days, hiding behind Padfoot and Prongs as they tortured a few ickle Slytherins! Oh yeah. . . I know all about your school days, Wormy! I know how you hid behind my Dad and Sirius, basking in their glory. . .living off all their hard work. Your ickle friends weren't there to protect you anymore, were they? So ickle Wormtail joined up with Moldyshorts instead!" Potter mocked.

"Deep down inside, that's all you've ever been Wormtail. . . a weakling. A loser who hung around the biggest bullies in the playground. At school it was my Dad and his self-righteous crusade against Slytherins, and in the real world it was your beloved Dark Lord. Your own pathetic hide was the only thing that mattered. . . . and to hell with the rest of them!"

The Boy-Who-Lived paced furiously from side to side. "Even then I would have let go. You aren't the only pathetic coward in the world after all. I would never _forgive_ you for what you did, but I was willing to look the other way when you escaped the aurors. You served your purpose, after all. My godfather was free, I was happy. . . I couldn't care less about you as long as you stayed out of my sight. But you couldn't do that, could you?"

He stopped pacing to stare at Peter with a murderous expression. "Tell me, Wormtail, why did you go looking for your master?"

Peter gaped wordlessly at him.

"Answer me, Wormtail. _Crucio._ "

The Boy-Who-Lived held the curse over him for a full minute. "You could have gone anywhere in the world. You could have gone and lived your life any way you wanted and I wouldn't have given a damn. Instead, you went all the way to Albania to throw yourself at the mercy of the very filth that destroyed my life!"

"You killed Bertha Jorkins. You worked to bring me to that bastard. You sat back and watched as the monster who killed my parents and so many other good people was brought back to life. . . for the sake of what? _Revenge_? Your bloody _ego_?"

"Answer me, you piece of shite! _Answer me!_ "

Potter closed his eyes and slowly brought himself back under control.

"You know you have only yourself to blame for this, don't you, Wormtail?" He fixed Peter with a cold look. "If you'd simply run off to someplace safe and lived out your life like a normal person, none of this would be happening right now."

"None of this would be happening if you'd simply _stayed away_. Instead, you started a war, Wormtail. A war you and your precious master have absolutely no hope of winning." The Boy-Who-Lived shot him a feral grin. "A war which I will take great pleasure in bringing to an end."

Potter stepped forward and grabbed Peter's silver hand, examining it closely. "This hand. . . this was your master's reward for bring him back to life, wasn't it? I remember. I remember that night in the graveyard as you fell to your knees, licking his shoes like a dog when he gave you this."

His grip on Peter's hand tightened, causing him to whimper in pain. "This hand is dear to you, isn't it Wormtail? You _love_ what this hand represents, don't you? A symbol of your power, a symbol of your importance to your master. . . that's what this hand is, isn't it? _Diffindo!_ "

Peter howled in pain as his sliver hand was neatly severed from his arm. Blood gushed out in a torrent as he clutched his limb to his chest, trying to stem the bleeding in vain.

"Still, I suppose I should be thanking you," Potter murmured quietly as he watched the older man writhe painfully on the ground. "Thanks to you I finally have the chance to avenge myself on the bastard who killed my family. I dare say I should reward you for that somehow, shouldn't I?"

He reached down to grab the sobbing wizard by his collar and dragged him to the edge of the island.

"I'm going to give you a gift Peter: rather than torturing you for a _decade_ like I initially planned, I'm going to give you the mercy of a quick death. It's more than you deserve, but then I _am_ a very generous soul."

Peter struggled weakly against his grip. "Please. . . I don't want to die. . ."

"Too bad. Like I said before, you're not getting a choice in the matter." The Boy-Who-Lived hoisted him up to his feet and dangled him over the edge of the inky black lake.

He looked the terrified and weeping Peter straight in the eye. "Don't worry, Wormtail. I'll be sending your Death Eater pals behind you shortly. Your beloved master will have to wait though. I have something. . . _special_ planned for him."

The emerald-eyed teenager gave him a cruel smile. "Goodbye Wormtail; and if you see my Uncle Vernon down there, tell him I said ' _Hi_ '."

Then he dropped the goblet into the water with a loud splash.

A number of pale white hands shot out of the water, wrapping themselves around Peter's body. As Harry Potter took a step back, they pulled him beneath the icy depths of the lake. He struggled weakly as more and more pale bodies appeared, dragging him into the darkness below.

The last thing Peter Pettigrew saw, before he was consumed by the darkness, was the ghostly image of Lily Potter standing behind her son, their emerald eyes damning him to hell for all eternity.

* * *

 **AN: So yeah, I guess you can see that I really don't like Peter. . . at all.  
**

 **Based on Dumbledore's reaction in the scene from HBP, I've concluded that the potion was a poison that forces a man to relive his worst memories in a nightmarish manner. I figured that unless Peter was a complete sociopath (which I doubt) he'd have _some_ kind of regret over the things he's done. After all, you don't spend years as someone's friend and then betray them without feeling any kind of regret whatsoever. **

**This chapter also reveals a few things about Harry. Note that while he's mostly in control around his friends, deep down he does have a great deal of anger and bitterness locked away. This will be significant later in the story.  
**

 **For those of you wondering about the graveyard fight, don't worry. The greatest Dark Lord the world has ever seen won't go down so easily. Peter just escaped before things got interesting, as you all will find out soon.**

 **Next chapter: everyone's favorite dogfather finally makes an appearance :)**

 **Thanks a lot to all my readers for your valuable feedback. Keep em coming :)**


	14. A Serious Situation

The first time Sirius Black came face to face with his godson, he wasn't able to pull him into a Marauder-style hug like he'd so dearly hoped to.

It probably had something to do with the wand pointed in his face by a very _pissed-off_ miniature version of James.

"You have thirty seconds to explain why _exactly_ I shouldn't paint the walls of this place with your brains, Black!"

Sirius swallowed. _Scratch that, a miniature version of James with Lily's temper!_

Thankfully his survival instincts kicked in before his godson decided to make good on his threat. He started babbling about Peter, and switching Secret-Keepers and dirty rats who stabbed their friends in the back.

Judging from the baffled expressions on the faces of the other two kids though, he wasn't doing a good enough job of explaining himself.

Just as Sirius was seriously wondering who he'd pissed off in his previous life to warrant getting killed by his own godson, help arrived in the form of an old friend.

"Professor Lupin!" the girl cried.

Remus took one look at the scene before raising his wand to disarm Harry, or so Sirius hoped anyways. Merlin help him if he'd tried anything else!

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on who you asked) Harry was much faster.

After throwing the hapless Professor into the wall with enough force to rattle the windows, Harry stalked over to him menacingly.

"You dare turn your wand against _me_?" he thundered. "Me? I _trusted_ you, you wanker! I kept your bloody secret all this time, and you've been in league with this bastard _all along?_ "

"Harry...you don't understand..."

"Shut up, _Werewolf!_ " The venom in his voice actually made Sirius flinch.

"He's a werewolf?" the red-head ask dumbly.

The bushy-haired girl just nodded quietly, obviously terrified by what she saw.

In a few minutes, a bound Remus Lupin was sitting next to his old friend, stammering out an explanation, and his deduction that Peter Pettigrew was still alive. Sirius also threw in his two cents, telling them about how he'd escaped from Azkaban after seeing that news article with Peter's photo in his rat form.

His heart sank at the expression of utter distrust and hatred on his godson's face. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

Sirius had had it all planned out. He would get into Hogwarts, find the traitorous rat, then something would happen. . . .he wasn't exactly sure what. Either way he'd be a free man, and then he'd walk into Hogwarts and his godson, his beloved Prongslet, would run into his arms. They'd live together happily after that, preferably on an island full of buxom Veela.

He'd never imagined that things would turn out _this_ way.

Sirius supposed that he was partly to blame for this. He'd been wallowing in his filth (which wasn't really as bad as it sounded, seeing as he was in his dog form) when he'd picked up the scent of the dirty rat from the direction of the Quidditch pitch. Almost immediately, he spotted the lanky red-head whose shoulder Peter had been perched on in the photo. Knowing full well that the bastard was in one of the kid's pockets, he'd simply tackled the boy and proceeded to drag him through the Willow into his hideout.

In hindsight, that hadn't been one of his better ideas.

Now he watched his godson's face in dismay as he finished his tale. He looked into those bright green eyes, beseeching them to at least _consider_ what he'd just said.

His hopes were in vain.

"You're both mental!" the red-head cried, succinctly summing up the thoughts of all three teenagers in the room.

"Ron, please," Remus begged. "He's telling the truth. You have to. . . ."

"Enough," Harry said coldly.

Lupin immediately fell silent, regarding the angry teenager warily. Sirius however was ready to cry.

 _Please, believe me Harry. I don't care if you kill me later, but you have to know the truth._

"Did you hear all that?" Harry said quietly, prompting confused looks from his friends.

"I did." Everyone in the room nearly jumped out of their skin and stared in shock as Severus Snape stepped out from the shadows, lifting his Disillusionment charm. "And you are deluding yourself if you believe a single word out of their traitorous mouths." He glared at Sirius with undisguised hatred.

"Severus, please. You. . . . ."

"Silence, you beast, or I shall. . . !"

"Enough!" Harry's firm voice cut off their argument. He paced back and forth a few minutes and then stopped, running a hand through his messy hair in frustration.

 _Just like James. . . . .  
_

"There's only one way to solve this," he declared. "Professor, can you conjure a silver stake for me?"

Snape wordlessly conjured a foot long silver spike and passed it to him. Harry levitated the stake to place it a mere two feet away from Remus' face.

"Check the rat, Professor," he said coldly. "If they're lying, the werewolf gets it _right_ between the eyes."

The girl gasped. Remus swallowed in fear. Snape gave a feral smile before striding over to the other boy.

"Harry, mate. . ." The red-head goggled at him. "You don't seriously think. . . ?"

"Let the Professor check him, Ron. It's the only way to know for sure."

Ron silently obeyed, handing the struggling rat over to Sirius' childhood nemesis. The fugitive from Azkaban sent out a silent prayer, hoping that he was right.

For the first time in a very long time, his prayers were answered.

Sirius and Remus, freed from their bindings, watched as the. . . .the _animal_ they once called their friend pathetically tried to justify his betrayal of Sirius' two dearest friends to their own flesh and blood.

It took all of Remus' enhanced strength to pull him off the wretched rat once he'd finished his story.

"Let me go, Remus!" Sirius growled. "That bastard deserves to die!"

"Sirius. . . control yourself . . ." Remus panted. "We _need_ him. . .to prove your innocence. . ."

"Like hell I'm letting him. . . !"

"Black, you utter imbecile!" Snape sneered. "For once in your life _listen_ to those who possess more sense than you do. Or has Azkaban robbed of what little brainpower you had?"

"Bugger off Snivellus, or I'll. . . . !"

"Sirius, calm down."

Hearing his godson call him by his given name for the first time in his life startled Sirius out of his tantrum.

"Pettigrew's no good to us dead," he said wearily. He looked completely exhausted, physically and emotionally. . . .not that Sirius could blame the poor kid. "We need him alive to testify on your behalf."

"But Harry. . ."

"You've got a Kiss-on-sight order on you, Mr Black," the girl reminded him. "Your turning up with his body won't be enough to get you a trial. We need his testimony."

The earnest look on the children's faces did a good job of deflating his anger. "Fine," he conceded.

"Oh, thank you," the double-crossing filth sobbed, throwing himself at his godson's feet. "Thank you so much, Harry!"

To Sirius' immense satisfaction, Harry's kick shattered the man's jaw and sent him flying.

"I said we won't be killing you," his godson said, advancing on the whimpering coward slowly. "I never said we'll be bringing you in in one piece."

Sirius's grin was positively feral.

* * *

Sirius wasn't quite sure about what happened after that.

He remembered everyone taking turns to groin-stomp the backstabbing rat (even Snape joined in, to his surprise), he remembered leaving Remus behind in the shack as they moved out (something about forgetting his potion, whatever that meant), he remembered talking to his godson as they levitated the twitching and moaning rat out of the Willow entrance (it was his godson's brilliant idea to shatter the traitor's kneecaps). . . .

He remembered their group being ambushed by a hundred Dementors as they made their way to the castle, and the most incredible display of raw magical power Sirius had ever seen as Harry drove them all off with a single patronus. . . .

The encounter with the Dementors made his memory even fuzzier after that. He remembered Amelia Bones coming in (she was DMLE head now, apparently), and both Dumbledore and her questioning him and the rat under Veritaserum; he also dimly recalled their argument with Fudge, who kept insisting that he be Kissed (who knew the Minister swung that way, but then Sirius had always been rather devilishly handsome). . . .

And just like that, he was a free man.

Sitting on a bed in St Mungo's as he underwent medical treatment for malnutrition and mental trauma, Sirius Black allowed this new piece of information to sink in.

He was free, gloriously free!

He giggled slightly to himself. No more eating out of trash bins, no more wallowing in his own filth while making elaborate plans to hunt down treacherous vermin, no more staving off unwanted advances from female canines in heat (not his fault he was such a stud even as a starved dog). . . .

He was a free man!

He giggled some more. He was _free!_ Free to live with his godson, free to finally go to that island full of buxom Veela (a bit of drool leaked out from his mouth), free to have his revenge on that bastard Crouch who sent him to that hell-hole without a trial, and that old goat-buggering fool who testified against him without even once listening to his side of the story. . . .

He cackled evilly. He'd show them. . . .he'd show them _all!_ Prank Lord Padfoot was back, and he brought pain and humiliation for his enemies. . .

Sitting a few feet away from his bed, a young nurse turned around to regard her senior.

"Hey, Agnes?"

"Yes, dearie?"

"Should we tell him he's been talking out aloud for the last half hour?"

"Oh, never mind him, dearie," Agnes said without looking up from her novel. "They're all the same when they get here, you know: nutty as a fruitcake."

"If you say so," she agreed.

* * *

Sirius groaned slightly as he heard the door to his room open once again.

"If your name isn't Harry Potter, you should just turn around and leave."

"And if my name _is_ Harry Potter?" a rather amused voice asked.

Sirius looked up to see his godson standing near the door, his bright green eyes shining with mirth.

"Then you should plonk your arse down on that chair and pay your respects to your dogfather," Sirius said with a wide grin.

"Yes, oh dogfather of mine," Harry said with a mock-bow and made himself comfortable next to his bed. "So, been having a lot of visitors?"

"Yeah. The more irritating ones anyways," Sirius grimaced.

"Fudge?" his godson asked sympathetically.

"And old man Dumbles," Sirius nodded. "Driving me up the wall, those old codgers are."

"Fudge I can understand. But what does the goat-lover want with you?"

Sirius grinned. He'd been incredibly pleased to know that his godson shared his dislike of the old Headmaster. He didn't really know what the old man did to earn Harry's ire, but from what he could tell about the boy so far, it must've been something major.

"Well. . . .first, he started with the usual crap. How _sorry_ he was that he believed so wrongly of me, how _regretful_ he is of all the time I spent in that hell-hole, how _disappointed_ he was that we didn't trust him enough to tell him about the Secret-Keeper switch. . . ." Sirius snorted contemptuously. "Fat lot of good his regret does for me now."

"Oh. . . .he was also saying something about you having to stay with your muggle relatives over the summer. Something about Blood Wards," he looked at his godson questioningly.

Harry nodded sadly. "The Blood Wards part is true, I'm afraid. Dumbledore cast it himself based off of whatever ritual my mum used to defeat Voldemort. I hired a Gringotts curse-breaker to check it out during my first-year. It's powerful intent-based magic."

Sirius nodded in grudging admiration. Intent-based wards were some of the strongest wards in existence and he had no desire to deprive his godson of them, especially if the Dark Plonker was still alive as the old man believed; not to mention that the fact that Lily had _sacrificed_ herself to give her son that kind of protection made those wards practically sacred in his eyes. He tried his best not to let his disappointment at not being able to live with his godson show.

Judging from the look in Harry's eyes, he wasn't quite successful. "It's not that bad. I only have to stay there for two weeks every summer for them to fully recharge, the rest of the time I'll be spending with you. Plus it's only until I reach my majority. I'll be able to move in with you fully then."

Sirius perked up considerably upon hearing that.

"By the way, what did Fudge want with you? Worried you're going to give the Ministry bad press?"

Sirius barked out a laugh. "Yeah. . . .there's that. He's also trying his hardest to convince me not to claim the Black seat on the Wizengamot."

Harry blinked in surprise. "You're not serious? You actually have a seat on the _Wizengamot?_ "

Sirius grinned. "I assure you, kiddo, I _am_ Sirius. . . ."

Harry groaned loudly at the pun. "You know that gets old pretty quickly, don't you?"

"Nonsense," he waved his hand airily. "There's nothing old about a ' _Serious-Sirius_ ' joke."

"Whatever," Harry rolled his eyes. "Now, you were saying that you had a seat on the Wizengamot?"

"My dear old dad did; and since I'm the only Black male left it falls to me to take it up. The Black family is one of the oldest Wizarding families in Britain. Pureblood bigots, the whole lot of them," he finished in disgust.

"Why does Fudge not want you to take up the seat?" his godson asked curiously.

"Probably because cousin Lucy doesn't want to give up his proxy," Sirius said with a sneer.

Harry blinked. "You're related to the Malfoys?"

"The pure-blood families are all interrelated," said Sirius. "If you're only going to let your sons and daughters marry purebloods your choice is very limited, there are hardly any of us left. Heck, I'm even related to the Weasleys, however distantly."

"In this case though, Lucius holds the proxy of the Black seat because his wife Narcissa is my closest relation by blood. One of her sisters, Bellatrix, is in Azkaban and the other, Andromeda, was disowned." Sirius shook his head slightly. "I bet that blood-purist ponce was hoping to gift the seat to his son when he reached his majority."

"Draco on the Wizengamot, huh?" Harry scratched his chin thoughtfully. "He's not as bad as his father, but I'm not sure I want to see him with _that_ kind of power."

Sirius nodded. "You see what my dilemma is? A part of me wants to reclaim the seat, if only to spite dear cousin Lucius. Another part of me wants to flip the British Ministry the bird and get a French citizenship. Bugger these fools and their backward policies!"

"You do that and you'll lose any chance you have of getting my guardianship. The British Ministry won't allow me to become a ward of the French," Harry warned him.

"Dumbledore said the same thing," Sirius scowled. "Personally I think the old codger is hoping I'll side with him when I take my seat; give him another vote to add to his faction."

"Yeah, I'm starting to realize he doesn't do anything without an agenda of his own," Harry practically growled, leading Sirius to wonder for the umpteenth time what _exactly_ the old man had done to piss his godson off.

They remained silent for a few moments. Then Harry spoke. "What if you claimed your seat, and decided to side with neither Dumbledore nor Malfoy?"

Sirius frowned in thought. "You're asking me to go neutral?"

His godson nodded. "I'm friends with the daughters of the Greengrass family, and from what I've heard he's the one who heads the Neutral Faction in the Wizengamot. I'm sure he'd be happy to let you join them."

Sirius grinned lecherously. "Friends, huh?" He put up his hands in a calming gesture as his godson glowered at him. "All right, all right. . . ."

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "The Neutral Faction, huh? That'd be interesting. You know the Blacks have sided with the Dark Faction for centuries, right?"

"Yeah, but you're not a blood-purist," Harry pointed out correctly.

"Yeah, I'm not. You know, you're definitely onto something there, Harry." Sirius let out a huge sigh. "What the hell. . .I'll do it. I'll take the seat and join up the Neutrals. If nothing else I'll be able to stick it to both Dumbles and Lucy, and maybe give Fudge a heart attack or two." Sirius nodded to himself. Yes, it'd be the perfect revenge for all the crap those bastards put him through. He'd create so many problems for those three wankers that they'd rue the day they set foot in the Ministry.

A Black never forgives. . . .and a Marauder never forgets. Unfortunately for them, Sirius Black was both.

"So, enough of all this," he grinned at his godson. "Tell me Harry, you played any good pranks at Hogwarts yet?"

"Well. . . ." he leaned forward. "I ever tell you about the time I tricked Lucius Malfoy into freeing his own house-elf?"

Sirius' grin just got wider.

* * *

"Hey Sirius?"

"Hmmm?"

"You spoke to Remus recently?"

Sirius grimaced at the mention of his former friend. "Nope. Why?"

"Well. . . .you know he lost his job at Hogwarts a week ago. Figured he'd get in touch with you by now."

Sirius and his godson were sitting in his room on the eve of his discharge from St Mungo's, playing a game of exploding snap. The Black heir was due to claim his Lordship in the next two days, and as such was in a rather antsy mood.

"What do you want from me, Harry?" he asked quietly.

His godson sighed softly. "Look, I know you're still mad at him. Hell, if I were in your place I'd be furious too. It's just. . . ."

"Just what?"

"You miss him," Harry said bluntly. Sirius squirmed in his bed when he saw his godson shoot him the same penetrating look Lily did whenever he was being too bull-headed. "It would be one thing if you were glad to be rid of him, but you actually miss the bloke."

"I don't," Sirius said, stubbornly glaring at his cards.

"You didn't have any problems forgiving Andromeda when she showed up a few days ago," he pointed out.

"That's different!" Sirius snapped. "She's my cousin. Granted we were close once, but we dropped out of touch years ago. Heck, I was still in school when she married Ted and ended up getting disowned from the family."

"Remus on the other hand was one of my best friends. The closest thing I had to a brother apart from your father! He should have known better. He should've _trusted_ me!"

"Just like you trusted him when you decided to tell him that you'd switched Secret-Keepers, right? Oh wait. . . .you didn't."

Sirius glowered at his godson. "I admit it alright. . .I screwed up. . . !"

"Yes, yes you did Sirius. You screwed up _big_ time." Harry's glare was much fiercer than his. "You should have taken care of me instead of running after Peter. Merlin's balls Sirius, I just survived an attack from _Voldemort_. . . .you should've rushed me to St Mungo's before doing anything else. Instead, you dumped me in Hagrid's arms and ran off like a moron!"

Sirius was outraged. "I didn't have a choice, alright? Hagrid said that Dumbledore told him to . . . ."

"To hell with Hagrid and to hell with Dumbledore!" Harry snarled. "My parents made _you_ my godfather. Not Hagrid, not Dumbledore. . . .but _you_! It wasn't Dumbledore's bloody _job_ to decide where I was supposed to go. But you didn't think about that did you? No. . . .you were _obsessed_ with punishing Pettigrew. You didn't even think to inform the aurors or take any backup with you, you just ran after him and look where that got us all!"

Sirius felt like he'd been punched in the gut. "Harry. . . ." he croaked. "I swear I. . ."

At his hurt expression, Harry's anger dissipated. He sat back in his chair and sighed. "I'm not blaming you, Sirius. Merlin knows I'd probably do the same thing if something happened to Ron and Hermione, but you have to stop this. You can't go around hating Dumbledore and Remus when you yourself messed up so badly."

He ran his hand through his messy hair in frustration. "A lot of mistakes were made that night. Dumbledore jumped the gun when he testified that you were the Secret-Keeper based on complete hearsay, Remus messed up when he didn't get all the facts straight; and you didn't exactly help your case either, sitting there and continuously babbling that it was _your_ fault my parents were dead."

Harry sighed once more. "I don't want you to lose yourself in your anger, Sirius. Whatever anyone might say, I know that you're a good person at heart. Heck, if I were in your place I'd probably start tearing this country apart by now." He smiled wryly. "I know you still care about Remus. . . .after all he's the only friend you've got right now. I just don't want you to do something you might come to regret."

Sirius relaxed slightly when he realized his godson really wasn't upset with him. "It's not just the whole Azkaban thing, Harry. Okay. . . .I'll admit it hurts that he thought so little of me, but the real reason I'm so furious with him is about. . . .well, _you_."

Harry frowned. "What d'you mean?"

Sirius let out a deep sigh. "I spent _twelve years_ in that hell-hole, Harry, and in all those years there wasn't a single day when I didn't think of you; there wasn't a single day when I wished I'd told Hagrid to go bugger himself when he asked me to hand you over."

"You know there's nothing I wouldn't have done to so much as catch a glimpse of you back then. I'd have done anything. . . .hell, I'd have happily spent another twelve years in that place just to be able to see you even once."

"I was unable to check up on you all those years because I was stuck in prison. But what was Remus' excuse?"

He glanced at his godson, whose face may as well have been made out of stone. Looks like he was right when he suspected that his home life hadn't been good. There was no way any normal kid would've been so mature at that age, unless he lived in a home where he was _forced_ to grow up early.

"You know, Remus has always been rather insecure because of his. . . .condition. He was always going on about how James and I seemed to take the regular things in life for granted. But the one time he had something the both of us didn't, he screwed it up."

"He could've checked up on you. Even if he couldn't stay close, he could've at least looked you up maybe once a year. Told you about your parents, about your heritage, maybe taught you a few things. . . .heck, he knows enough about the muggle world to even write to you via non-magical means. But he didn't do any of that."

"Hell, the one time he decided to meet with you, it was while working for _Dumbledore_ of all people. After everything you dad did for him, it was almost as if he needed to be paid just to get in touch with you," he finished with an angry growl.

Harry looked at him in slight alarm. "You didn't actually say that to his face, did you?"

Sirius gave a hollow laugh. "Merlin no, even _I'm_ not that heartless."

"But do you see now why I'm so upset with him? I can forgive Remus for the way he treated _me_ , Harry, but I can't forgive him for the way he treated _you_." Sirius' eyes blazed with anger. "His behavior towards you is an insult to everything James and Lily ever stood for."

Harry sat back in his chair tiredly. "I know Sirius, I know. . . .believe me, I've thought about all this on more than one occasion; but I didn't have the patience to take it up with him, not with everything else that was going on."

"Someday I'll probably ask Remus why he was so hesitant to look me up all those years. But right, now we need to focus on moving ahead. You, me, Remus. . . .we've all got a lot of baggage that we can't afford to keep carrying around. It's time to let the wounds heal and move on, Sirius."

"If you still find it hard, think about it this way: at least you have Andromeda and me to consider family, Sirius. Who has Remus got?"

Sirius nodded quietly. His godson was right on the money. Once again he wondered what could've forced him to grow up so fast. No child should sound so mature, or have such old and tired eyes.

"What do you think I should do?"

"Get in touch with him, preferably before he pulls another disappearing act," said Harry. "He just lost his job so, I dunno, maybe you could help him find one."

Sirius stroked his chin thoughtfully. "You know. . . .I suppose I could offer him a job to clean out my parents' old place."

"Your parents' house?"

"Yeah. You remember what I told you about my mum?"

"Yeah. You said she was a blood-purist and a complete nutjob."

"Understatement of the century," Sirius muttered. "She was obsessed with two things: Blood-purity and the Dark Arts. By the time of her death she had what was easily the largest collection of Dark Artifacts outside of Knockturn Alley."

"Anyways, I figure I could hire Remus to get rid of all things, seeing as he's pretty knowledgeable about this stuff and has some reliable contacts in the seedier parts of town. There're also some pretty valuable books in the library; get rid of the cursed ones and we can make a small fortune selling the rest."

"How long will this take?"

"Years," Sirius shrugged. "The house is big and who knows where my mother squirreled away her stuff. Assuming I decide to sell the whole damn thing, it could take years to evaluate the entire estate."

"Nice," his godson nodded approvingly. "Think he'll go for it?"

"If I word it as an excuse to spend more time together, then yeah, he will. If he tries to act up you could always try convincing him yourself." Sirius grinned at the teen. "You got a way with words, kiddo."

"It's been said," Harry laughed. "Anyways. . . .I'm just glad you're up for it."

"Yeah, well. . .that's only cause you make so much sense," Sirius said as he picked up his cards again. "Besides, I figure since Moony forgave me for trying to feed Snape to him, I should be a mite generous as well, right?"

His godson was silent for a few moments. "What was that just now, Sirius?"

Sirius cursed himself for the slip, trying his best to shield his face with his cards.

Harry's hand moved forward to shove the cards away. "Sirius," he said quietly, a cold look in his eyes. "What was that just now?"

He gulped slightly, trying to not think about how much his godson's eyes and tone reminded him of Lily back when she'd caught him in the girls' showers under James' invisibility cloak, trying to take pictures. That had not ended well for him.

"Well?" Harry demanded.

Sirius Black whimpered in fear. Suddenly, he began to doubt if he'd be able to leave the hospital the next day.

* * *

Sirius paced from side to side in front of the fireplace in his new home, shooting a dirty look at his godson every now and then.

"Padfoot?" Harry asked, not looking up from his book.

"Yeah?"

"That's getting really annoying."

"Too bad," Sirius snapped.

With a huge sigh, Harry closed his book and looked up at his dogfather. "Alright, say it."

"What?"

"You've been like this since we came back from Hogwarts. So spill, what's gotten your boxers in a twist?"

Sirius stopped and glared at his godson in an effort to look as stern as possible. "Next year you're going to be transferring to Beauxbatons Academy. I'm _not_ going to have you study at Hogwarts anymore."

Judging from the brat's eye-roll, he was failing miserably. "Why?"

"Why? _Why?_ Merlin Harry, are you insane?" Sirius exploded. "You've just agreed to take part in Tournament that got cancelled because its _death toll_ was too high in order to draw out a Dark Lord who's been after your blood since you were one; and you're asking me _why?_ " He shook his head in wonder.

"I dunno. . . .maybe I caught your crazy?"

"Don't get cheeky with me, you brat! You just agreed to act as bait for the worst Dark Lord the world has ever seen! Clearly, _I'm_ not the crazy one here."

"And don't even get me started on all those. . . . _adventures_ you've had in the first two years. Trolls in the bathrooms? Cerberus in the corridors? Possessed teachers? Thousand-year old _basilisks_?" He stared at his godson in horrified wonder.

"Okay, calm down. Let's take this step by step."

"Firstly," Harry held up one finger. "You heard what the Headmaster said. There's no way to get me out of the Tournament that doesn't involve the loss of my magic or my life."

"Secondly: even if there was another way, we both know that wouldn't stop Voldemort from trying to kidnap me again. He's persistent as hell and short of killing him, there's no way to get him off our backs."

"And thirdly," he was openly glaring at Sirius now, "I don't want to hear about any complaints about my ' _adventures_ ' from a bloke who spent his school days running around with a werewolf every single month."

Sirius was incensed. "And that worked out wonderfully for all of us, didn't it?" he hissed quietly. "One dead, one living hand-to-mouth for the last dozen years, one a former guest of Azkaban, and the last a servant of the very man who killed your parents!"

Both godfather and godson glared at each other for a few moments. Then Sirius let out a huge sigh and sat heavily in his armchair.

"Back when we were your age, we thought we were the smartest kids on the block." He gave a hollow bark of laughter. "We were a bunch of _fools_ , Harry. A bunch of arrogant fools. We weren't unintelligent by any means, but even between the four of us we didn't have a lick of common sense."

"We thought we were bloody invincible, that we could do no wrong. . . .that by itself wasn't so bad since all teenagers think that way, you know. But the problem started when we carried that attitude forward into the real world, in a time of war no less!"

"Sometimes I wonder how things would've been if we actually _listened_ to your mother and grown up a little. If we were a little more cynical, if we were a little more pragmatic, if we were a little less self-righteous. . . .I dunno. Maybe James and Lily would still be alive, maybe you'd have grown around people who actually loved you, maybe. . . ." He shook his head, not knowing what else to say.

For a long time they both said nothing, only staring at the crackling fire. Then Harry spoke up.

"What's wrong, Sirius? You're not usually like this. What's really bothering you?"

Sirius stifled a snort. _Just like Lily, nothing got past **her** either._

"Do you know how your dad and I came to be friends?" he asked quietly. "It was mostly because your father was the only student in the school _willing_ to be my friend. I was the first Black to be sorted into Gryffindor in, well. . . .forever I guess. Guess my Uncle Alphard rubbed off on me more than anyone thought." He chuckled sadly. "My family had a reputation for being the darkest of families, and frankly I don't think anyone expected me to be anywhere else but in Slytherin. ' _A snake in lion's clothing_ ', that's what the students used to call me back then."

"I still remember how shocked I was when your dad said he wanted to be friends. He said he didn't care what family I came from, as long as I was clear on what I stood for." He smiled wistfully. "James was always strange that way. He could be a real berk sometimes, but he had a way of making people feel wanted, you know. Never hesitated to go out of his way for them."

"Like with Remus?" Harry asked.

"Exactly," Sirius nodded. "Most people would've distanced themselves from him once they realized what he was, but not James. Nope, he actually wanted to _help_ the bloke. Animagi transformations are hard enough for most adult wizards, but James was stubborn enough to get it done within a couple of years. All because he wanted to help someone he considered his friend."

"My point, Harry, is that I spent my entire childhood, and a good part of my adult life fighting for the Light, largely thanks to your dad. I stuck by my friends, I fought against Voldemort and his supporters. . . .even if it meant going against my own blood. And how did they reward me for that? They threw me in bloody Azkaban!"

Sirius' expression was murderous now. "Crouch and Dumbledore can say whatever they like, the real reason for sending me to Azkaban without a trial was because, in the eyes of the Wizarding people, I was a Black. . . .so naturally I must be evil. What did it matter that I fought and bled for the Light? What did it matter that my godson needed me? No. . . .I was a Black, and naturally that made me a Dark Wizard because that's what was _expected_ of me!"

Sirius looked his godson straight in the eye. "You want to help Bones and Dumbledore get rid of Voldemort, I get it. Merlin knows I want that wanker to suffer as well! But the one thing you have to understand Harry, is that the British Wizarding population is full of sheep. They're fools who're so entrenched in their stupid beliefs of Light and Dark, and so used to having other people do all the work for them, that they'll never even _try_ understand what it takes to actually _win_ a bloody war."

"That's what worries me the most: the fact that someday these people will turn on you the same way they turned on me. You might be willing to put your neck on the line for these people now, but trust me: one word from someone like Malfoy, and they'll start calling you the next Dark Lord and call for your arrest faster than you can say ' _unfair_ '."

There was silence for a few moments before Harry spoke. "Is that what you really think, Sirius? You think I'm putting my life on the line for the ' _innocent masses_ '?"

Sirius gaped at the teenager. "Then what the _hell_ are you doing this for? What in the name of Morgana's saggy tits made you agree to Bones and Dumbledore's insane plan?"

In response, his godson got up from his seat. "Wait a moment." He reached into his bag and after a bit of rummaging, pulled out a framed photo that he thrust into Sirius' hands.

"What's this?"

"Group photo of the entire House after we won the House Cup in my first-year."

Sirius smiled slightly as he looked at the photo. Harry in the center, holding up the House Cup, flanked by his friends. Their bright smiles made him feel flush with joy.

Harry reached out and pointed at one of the more familiar students in the photo. "Hermione Granger, muggleborn. One of smartest students in the school. She's smarter than even I am (even if she doesn't know it yet herself) but she's never going to rise beyond a senior clerk in the Ministry, simply because her parents aren't wizards."

Sirius sighed inwardly. He had an idea where his godson was going with this.

"Katie Bell," he pointed at a slightly older brown-haired girl. "Half-blood. I overheard one of the scouting managers for the Harpies claim that she was one of the most talented fliers he'd ever seen, but she's never going to make it far because her blood isn't ' _pure_ ' enough."

" _These_ are the people I'm fighting for, Sirius. Those old farts in the Wizengamot, and those sheep who walk the streets don't matter to me. My friends, right here, are the reason I'm going to fight Voldemort and his death munchers, and win."

"But Voldemort. . . ."

". . . .isn't going to leave us alone if we simply go to France. He'll hunt us down there _after_ he's finished conquering this country, and then we'll have to fight him anyway; we can't run forever, Sirius! And you know something. . . .the people who'll pay the price for his ambitions will be my friends, and all those innocent muggleborn out there. Not the bloody adults in charge of the Ministry, not the sheep public. . . .but the present generation: _my_ generation."

"Taking down Voldemort won't mean anything when the next Dark Lord pops up in the next decade or so, Harry," Sirius argued. "Unless things change drastically for the British Wizarding society, which'll _never_ happen as long as people like Fudge are in charge, your generation is always going to suffer."

"Well. . . .that means we'll just have to make sure Fudge isn't in charge anymore, don't we?"

Sirius stared at his godson in open-mouthed shock. "You think this is some kind of a joke? You think you can replace the Minister for Magic that easily?"

Harry crossed his arms and stubbornly glared at his godfather. "Why not? I've got political mileage of my own, so do you. . . ."

Sirius laughed at the boy's naiveté. "Okay. . .okay, look now. It's true that between the both of us, we've got significant political capital. . . .but it's not that easy, Harry. What, you think you can just go up to the Wizengamot and make a few speeches and they'll just _agree_ to replace Fudge?"

"A vote of No-Confidence isn't that simple to push through, kiddo. Bribes have to be made, favors have to be exchanged; it can take a whole year for even someone like Dumbledore to set up something like that. Take Archer Evermonde, for example: Bloke actually passed a law saying that witches and wizards were forbidden from helping muggles after the First World War, lest they broke the Statute of Secrecy. He pissed off thousands of people who had spouses or relatives as muggles, but still managed to stay in office for ten years. Then there was. . . ."

"Fine, I get your point," Harry groaned. "We can't replace Fudge. Although. . . ." He was thoughtful all of a sudden. "Hypothetically speaking, if we _could_ replace him, who'd you choose?"

"Hmmm," Sirius scratched his chin thoughtfully. "If we could somehow get rid of Fudge, then I'd replace him with. . . . .Amelia Bones."

"Madam Bones?" Harry asked in surprise. "Why?"

"Well, for starters she's got a killer rack. . . ."

"You're voting for the DMLE head to be the next Minister because she's got huge breasts?" Harry looked at him in disbelief.

Sirius solemnly placed his hands on his young godson's shoulders. "Someday soon, kiddo, you will understand the value of a nice pair of tits."

Harry sighed loudly. "I'm really starting to understand why your animagus form's a dog, Sirius."

They laughed together for a few moments.

Sirius sobered up quickly. "Okay, jokes aside, Amelia is definitely the best candidate for the Minister's post I can think of. She's good at her job, knows how to make the tough decisions and is one of the few Department Heads I know of who isn't up to her neck in bribes. The only other people who fit the bill would be Arthur Weasley and Dirk Cresswell."

"Mr Weasley's not exactly Minister material," Harry pointed out.

"Precisely, and Cresswell's a muggleborn which means no one's even going to _consider_ voting for him. Amelia, though, she fits the requirements perfectly: she's a pureblood, so the traditionalists won't have any problems; she's from a prominent Light family, so that takes care of that faction; she's not one of Dumbledore's stooges, which means the other factions won't be skittish about voting for her."

"And the best part of all: she's a veteran of the First War, meaning the public will be more likely to vote for her when Snake-face finally shows his scaly arse."

"Damn. . . .you know quite a lot for someone who's been on the Wizengamot only a few months."

Sirius flushed slightly under his godson's praise. "The only problems I can foresee will be from Fudge's supporters. Fudge may be an incompetent administrator, but he's an excellent politician, not to mention power-hungry as hell. From what Daniel Greengrass tells me, for years he's been moving his people into key positions in the Ministry, just in case Malfoy decides to pull his money and support in the Wizengamot."

"So, you're saying that even if Fudge gets booted out, he'll still have some influence thanks to his supporters?"

Sirius nodded. "Exactly. These people will go out of their way to cause trouble for Fudge's replacement. Unless something can be done about them, the new government will fail in a few weeks and we'll be back to square one."

"So how do we take care of these toadies of his?"

"Well. First we'll have to. . . ." Sirius frowned as he realized he'd walked straight into his godson's trap.

"What?" the emerald-eyed boy said innocently.

Sirius snorted and crossed his arms. "Nice try, Harry. But I wasn't born yesterday, not to mention I practically helped your dad perfect that look you've got on your face."

"Oh alright, you got me," Harry grinned. "But you have to admit you've got some great ideas."

"No. . . .just no. I am _not_ helping you bring down the government," Sirius said stubbornly.

"Come on, Padfoot," his godson whined. "It'll be fun."

"No."

"Please?"

"I am not going to fall for that. No way."

"Think of it as a huge prank on the Ministry," Harry suggested brightly.

"What?"

"A prank. Not just any prank, but the biggest prank of the century! A chance to prank Fudge and all those blood-purist bigots at the Ministry." He was practically dancing with excitement.

Sirius had to admit he was sorely tempted. His godson was right. This was the perfect chance to get one over all those bastards in the Ministry, and with Voldemort slowly gaining strength and Harry insisting on fighting him, they needed all the support they could get.

Not to mention the incredible power of those puppy-dog eyes, magnified a hundred-fold by Lily's bright green ones until they were just short of the Imperius curse in terms of power.

"Well, all right." Sirius sighed in resignation. "Just this once, I'll help you overthrow the government."

"Yay," his godson cheered.

And so it was that two extremely intelligent (and slightly unhinged) individuals sat down and made plans that would change the British Ministry as they knew it.

* * *

Sirius looked up from his book as Harry suddenly appeared in the middle of their living room.

"Well?"

"Good news. Walden Macnair has just shuffled off the mortal coil."

He glanced at his godson's slightly pale face before walking into the kitchen. "Hot chocolate?"

"Please," Harry said as he flopped down on the couch.

Sirius bustled over with a steaming mug that Harry gratefully accepted. He took a sip and coughed slightly. "What did you put in it?"

"Firewhiskey."

"I'm underage," his godson reminded him.

"You just killed your first Death Eater," Sirius said simply. "That warrants a _real_ drink."

"Thanks," he said, shuddering slightly after another sip.

"You okay?" Sirius asked quietly. He noted the way the teenager's hands trembled slightly.

Harry shook his head. "I made the mistake of peeking into that plonker's mind. The things he did," he took another sip and shuddered again. " _Animals_ , the whole lot of them! Hell, calling them animals is an insult to animals."

Sirius said nothing. He recalled only too well the horrors of the First War, and the kind of things they'd found when they raided Death Eater safe houses. He'd had nightmares for weeks.

It was a few minutes later that he spoke. "Hey, Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"I can understand killing Macnair, I really do. It's just," Sirius licked his lips slightly. "Why did you have your men torture him?"

"Worried I'm gonna turn into a sadist?" Harry asked shrewdly.

"It's not like that! I. . . ."

"It's fine, Sirius. If someone sat in front of me all calm and collected after doing something like this, I'd question their sanity too."

He sipped his drink quietly. "I didn't have them torture Macnair because I enjoyed it. I honestly don't. But it had to be done for a few reasons."

"Such as?"

"The war's barely begun, Sirius. Sure, things are going easy for us now, but if Dumbledore's prediction is true and Voldemort gets his body back within the year, things are going to get real messy real fast."

"These people we hired: former hit-wizards, mercenaries, fighters-for-hire. . . .I brought them together to do the things that the aurors would be unwilling to do, the things that _need_ to be done. Now I know that they're all veterans of the First War, but a decade of peace will dull even the sharpest of instincts. I needed to reacquaint them with the nasty side of war so that they'll be ready when the time comes."

"At the same time I have no desire to create something worse than the Death Eaters. I need soldiers who can follow orders, not remorseless killers with a personal vendetta against Voldemort and his men. That's why I ran this little experiment: to see how they'd react when under pressure."

"It was a test?" Sirius asked in surprise.

"Yep," his godson nodded. "Part of John McDonald's responsibilities is to send me a report on the team's reactions to their missions. Based on his recommendations, we either retain or dismiss the fighters."

"But everyone already knows that John reports to you," Sirius pointed out. "They'll be careful what they say in front of him."

Harry smirked at him. "What makes you think John is my only source for information within the team?"

"He isn't?" Sirius asked him dumbly.

His godson's smirk grew wider. "Dobby!" With a crack, a rather strangely dressed elf appeared. "There's a file lying on my desk. Fetch it for me, please?"

Dobby disappeared and returned almost immediately with a thick file that Harry passed to Sirius.

"'Blake, William'," Sirius read out aloud. " _William Blake_ is your inside man!?"

"His real name's Lieutenant Commander Barry Marston. Muggleborn, Hogwarts class of 1960. Served as a Medical Officer in the Royal Navy for ten years. Falklands War veteran. Honorable discharge," Harry effortlessly recited from memory.

"How the hell did you manage to get hold of someone like that?" Sirius gaped at him.

"I have my ways," he said with a mysterious smile. "But that's not really important right now. Look at his qualifications."

Sirius read the file carefully. "He's got a degree in Clinical Psychology?"

"He specializes in combat psychology. Did a lot of good work back in the Falklands war, when people like him were in pretty high demand. He's also the one who put together the dossiers for all the other guys we hired, including John McDonald."

"His services must've cost a small fortune," Sirius said in awe.

"Hardly. Turns out he's got one hell of a grudge against Voldemort. His fiancée was one of the people killed in one of the earliest Death Eater attacks in 1970. Practically fell over himself when he found out who was hiring him."

"So he's keeping an eye on everyone?"

Harry nodded and took another sip. "He sends out regular reports about their mental states. He's old, and something like a mentor to them, so they talk a lot."

"Yeah. . . .I remember people saying he was a bit like Mad-Eye: a man who knew _real_ war. People have a tendency to open up to men like that."

"Exactly. They let their guard down and we find out what's going on in their minds. If Blake indicates that any one of them is enjoying their work a little too much, we simply hand them a sack of gold and obliviate the shite out of them."

"Nice," Sirius nodded approvingly. "You really put quite a lot of thought into that."

"Thank you."

"But you're not actually thinking about fighting Voldemort and his Death Eaters with just fifteen hit-wizards, are you?"

"Of course not," Harry scoffed. "They're just the red herring."

Sirius blinked. "What?"

"They're the distraction," Harry explained. "Okay, lemme put it this way: Remember what you said was the difference between a good prank and real good prank?"

"Sure. A good prank is one where you don't get caught; a real good prank is one where you use a little misdirection to make sure you're not even suspected."

"That's precisely what I'm doing here. When things start getting heated up, I'm going to use this little team of Vigilantes to keep the Ministry, Dumbledore and Voldemort distracted. It'll keep the attention off me while I focus on my real plans."

"Which are?" Sirius prompted.

His godson's grin was positively feral. "I'm going to do the impossible. I'm going to build an army at Hogwarts, right under the old man's crooked nose; an army far stronger than Dumbledore's precious Order, one that'll rival Voldemort's at the height of the First War."

"An army?" Sirius racked his brains to figure out Harry's thinking. "You mean that duelling club of yours?"

"It's not going to be just a duelling club for much longer. I've used the last year to closely gauge everyone's strengths. I'm going to pick out a hundred of the best fighters in the school and turn them into an elite fighting force."

"Harry, they're just kids!"

"So am I. Besides, today's children are tomorrow's citizens." He sipped his drink some more. "I'm fighting a bloody war against the worst Dark Lord our world has ever seen, Sirius. If they want a peaceful future, they'll have to fight for it by my side."

"You still can't expect a bunch of kids to go up against Voldemort's fighters and win. Seven years at Hogwarts hardly teaches you any effective combat spells," Sirius said reasonably.

"It's the not the number of spells you know, it's how you use them that matters," Harry declared. "And don't worry: I'll be focusing on teamwork to bring the Death Munchers down. I have absolutely zero intentions of fighting a fair battle. We're going to fight as dirty as possible. Hit em hard, hit em fast and get the bloody hell out of there as fast as you can."

"Guerrilla warfare," Sirius said thoughtfully. "Using the Death Eater's own tactics against them."

"That's the plan. Besides," he gave a huge yawn, "I'm going to neutralize the strongest Death Eaters pretty early in the game. With the Vigilantes also working side-by-side, the rest of them should be fairly easy to handle."

"Yeah, I suppose," Sirius watched as his godson set down his cup and curled into the sofa.

"It'll be fine," Harry said sleepily. "We'll win this one, Padfoot, don't worry. . . ."

"I'm sure we will," Sirius said quietly as he watched the Dreamless sleep potion in the Hot Chocolate finally kick in.

He sighed softly as he conjured a blanket and tucked it around the lightly snoring form of his godson.

The boy was so smart. Definitely Lily's intelligence in that one, along with James' confidence. . . .one heck of a combination, really.

His godson was a smart young man, that Sirius did not doubt. But sometimes the boy was too smart for his own good. . .

He gently ran his hand through the boy's messy black hair. What wouldn't he give to just take him and run? Run away from all this. . . .this fighting, this bloodshed, this war.

 _It's not fair. It shouldn't be like this. It shouldn't be **his** burden to carry. . ._

Sirius snorted slightly. Who was he kidding? He'd had his chance all those years ago. He should have run away with him back then, but he hadn't. It had ended up costing them both a lot.

It had cost him twelve years in Azkaban. . . .and it cost his godson his childhood.

Sirius was no fool. He'd conducted his own investigations into Harry's life with the Dursleys and reached his own horrifying conclusions. Nymphadora's report only served to confirm everything.

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair that good people like James and Lily were dead when monsters like Voldemort were still alive. It wasn't fair that innocent children like Harry suffered while scum like Malfoy lived in opulence even after everything they did.

But saying that aloud didn't change anything. His godson's childhood and innocence were long gone. There was nothing Sirius could do about that anymore.

But there was one thing he could do.

He sat down on the couch and put his arm around the boy who was his son in everything but blood.

He would protect Harry. He would stand by him no matter what he did, no matter how dark a path he chose to walk, no matter how far he decided to go in the pursuit of his ambitions . . . .

When his time came and he finally met up with James and Lily, he would fall on his knees and beg their forgiveness.

But until that day he would stand by his godson. Until that day he would support him, pull him back from the edge if he had to. . . .

Either way, he would always stand beside Harry.

Always.

* * *

 **AN: Here it is people, the chapter on everyone's favorite dogfather :)  
**

 **This chapter contains a shout-out to Rorschach's Blot, possibly my all-time favorite writer on this site.**

 **So yeah, as you can see Sirius is a little off his rocker in the beginning of the story. I've always found it hard to believe that he could survive a dozen years with the Dementors with absolutely no negative effects.**

 **I also tried to look for a logical reason for Sirius' devotion to James. I figured that the effects of his sorting into Gryffindor would've been similar to say, Draco's sorting into the House of Lions, seeing as both families have a history of producing Slytherins.**

 **As you can see, this chapter marks the point where Harry's goals evolve from 'kill Voldy and protect my friends' to 'bring Britain into a new world'. Also, just because he's smart doesn't mean he's got enough brains to figure out how the wizarding government works. An intelligent pureblood like Sirius however, does know a few things.**

 **Regarding the part with William Blake: I hope some of you must have at least suspected something while reading the chapter. After all, would a man known to be as paranoid as Mad-Eye Moody allow John to meet their mysterious employer by himself? Unless he knew all along. Then there was the name itself...**

 **Hope you folks understand what I meant by this Harry always having a plan within a plan.**

 **Next up, the chapter you've all been waiting for: Harry and Voldemort go head-to-head for the first time in the graveyard. How will it turn out for the Boy-Who-Lived?**


	15. The Best Laid Plans - I

As he made his way to Albania, possessing a lowly rat in a shipping container, the Dark Lord Voldemort silently contemplated his life.

 _He is seven when he feels his first sense of loss._

 _His book is gone._

 _Tom has never really had much in the name of possessions. He was never lucky enough to be gifted toys or money by the parents visiting Wool's orphanage. He doesn't care for them either. He does not like toys, and there is little he wishes to spend money on._

 _But the one thing that he has always treasured is his book._

 _It's nothing much...just a worn out copy of the 24th volume of the encyclopaedia Britannica that he found in a garbage bin. But to Tom it represents something. Knowledge, information...and the single fact that it is the one thing that belongs solely to him, and no one else._

 _Tom hates it when someone takes what is rightfully **his**. _

_Of course, he knows who is responsible. All the children do. Tom looks out of the window into the playground, into the smirking face of Billy Stubbs._

 _At first, he does as he has been taught in Church. He goes to the sisters, the deputy matrons...even to Mrs Cole herself with his complaints._

 _But they don't listen to him. They never do._

 _That is when he learns his first lesson about the world: Everybody is out for themselves; and the only one you can rely on is yourself._

 _The next day Billy Stubbs's rabbit is hanging from the rafters. The thuggish boy is standing in the middle of the playground, wailing like a little girl._

 _And **Tom** is the one who's smirking._

He was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost...but still, he was alive.

He did not know _what_ he was, but he was still alive and there.

As the disembodied form of the Dark Lord slowly moved through the forests, he cannot help but feel slightly vindicated for having gone so far in his quest for eternal life.

 _Hogwarts is an answer to Tom's wildest dreams._

 _As much food as you can eat, soft warm beds, school things he wasn't expected to share with everyone..._

... _.and books, so many many books! Sitting there in the library, waiting to be consumed. All that knowledge..._ _ **his**_ _!_

 _It is truly a most wondrous feeling._

 _Then there is his House: Slytherin._

 _Tom regards the green and silver on his robes with fondness. It suits him so well. Truly, he was **born** to be a Slytherin._

 _He thinks back to his first day, when the seniors made sure to impress upon the newcomers the importance of hierarchy; the structure of power that means everything within the House of cunning and ambition._

 _Tom quickly learns his next life lesson: Power is **everything**._

 _He looks around the room and sees different kinds of power. Physical, intellectual, financial, political..._

 _Tom does not have any of those things. But he has something else...something far more potent and useful._

 _Magical power. Raw magical strength of the highest order._

 _And he isn't afraid to use it!_

 _As he basks in the horrified looks of his housemates, reveling in the screams of pain from the Fifth-year twitching at his feet, he realizes that in the Wizarding world_ _ **his**_ _is the only kind of power that really matters._

A lone snake slithered through the grass on the outskirts of the village. A more observant person would have noticed the slight tinge of red in its slit-like eyes.

A more observant _wizard_ would have noticed a small dark cloud near the head of the reptile: a distinct sign of possession by a malevolent spirit.

Voldemort was not worried, however. He knew there were no magicals in this area.

 _He pulls out yet another book on Wizarding genealogy from the Library shelves._

 _He has been at this task for the last two months._

 _Ever since one of his classmates suggested that he might be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself (thanks to the small displays of Parseltongue he put on in the common room), Tom has been searching for a record of his father's attendance at Hogwarts. He has checked the school register, he has checked numerous books on family history...but he has found nothing._

 _In the end he is forced to accept the truth he has been evading for so long: His father never attended Hogwarts._

 _So what did that mean? Was his father a Squib?_

 _But there were no Wizarding families in Britain with the name of Riddle. So did that mean...?_

 _He shuts the book with a loud bang. No, no it was not possible. He refuses to even consider the possibility. His father was_ _ **not**_ _a filthy muggle! It just wasn't possible!_

 _No, his father was definitely a Squib. No doubt he was cast out of his family and chose to take the name Riddle to spite them or something. Yes, that had to be it..._

 _But then what about his mother? If his father was a Squib then **she** most certainly could not have been one. Did that mean she was a witch?_

 _But if she was magical then...why did she die?_

 _Tom recalled asking Mrs Cole about his mother once. She had explained how the woman had staggered into the orphanage on New Year's Eve and died after giving birth to him._

 _The matron's expression had been sympathetic, almost pitiful even as she described the wretched woman. But Tom only felt disgust._

 _His mother's death always reminds him of another one of his lessons: The strong live and flourish in this world, and the weak decay and die._

 _Tom is a true Slytherin: in that he respects ambition and people who strive to achieve something. Weak people who allow the burdens of life to crush them, who depend on others and allow themselves to be lead around by the nose...he **abhors** them! To him there was no life (or death) more pathetic than the one which his mother had gone through._

 _And that detestable wench was supposed to be a magical? Morgana forbid..._

 _Then something hits him. What was that the matron had said, something about his middle name coming from his grandfather._

 _ **Marvolo**. An unusual name. Perhaps he could investigate it further._

The snake moved deeper into the forest. It has just made a fortuitous escape.

Voldemort had been unable to believe his eyes when he'd caught sight of Alastor Moody strolling around in the village square. He had long since suspected that the aurors were sniffing around Europe for him (that old fool would be quick to deduce that he was not truly dead), but he'd never imagined that they'd actually be able to track him all the way to Albania.

He would have to limit his excursions into the village now. Be more careful. It would not do to reveal himself in this condition.

 _As he sits alone in his run-down apartment in Diagon Alley, Tom Riddle realizes that the time has finally arrived._

 _It has been six years since he took his first step towards greatness, five since he left the halls of Hogwarts to pursue his destiny._

 _Contrary to what others may believe, he has not been idle these five years. Working as a shop-boy in a Dark Artifacts store in Knockturn Alley might seem like a step down to most people, but to him it has proven to be a very **unique** learning opportunity. _

_He has learned a great deal about curses and rituals, has studied for many hours from some of the rarest tomes on Dark Magic to be found this side of the country, made contacts with some wealthy pureblood families who still dabbled in the forbidden magics, gathered a great deal of information about the various Dark Wizards in Europe and how to go about approaching them for knowledge..._

 _And all this time he has kept a wary eye on the world around him. He has watched the end of the Second World War, curiously coinciding with the defeat of the Dark Lord Grindelwald at the hands of his old Transfiguration teacher. He has watched as Dumbledore's been heralded as one of the strongest wizards of their age, one who brought an end to an age of darkness across Europe; watched as the man was showered with praise bordering on hero-worship, was awarded a seat on the Wizengamot (the first wizard from a minor pureblood house to be given the honor in centuries), has even heard the rumors about the newly elected Minister Tuft considering him for a seat on the ICW._

 _ **Dumbledore**_ _. The name brings a sneer to his lips. He has to hand it to the man: for all of his Gryffindorish talk about love and friendship, the man is definitely ambitious enough to put a Slytherin to shame. With a single masterful display of his magical prowess, he has managed to earn more power and goodwill than any other witch or wizard alive in Britain._

 _Sometimes he wishes he had not been so reckless the day he'd first met the old man. He had been so foolish back then, so eager to please...openly sharing his greatest secrets, allowing the man a glimpse into his true nature. Perhaps things could have turned out differently, perhaps he wouldn't have had to spend seven years of schooling constantly looking over his shoulder; who knows, he might have even succeeding in charming him the same way he did others..._

 _Tom shakes his head at his own naiveté. No, that would never have happened. Dumbledore was always too smart, too perceptive to be taken in by anyone. He and Tom were always destined to end up on opposite sides of the field; it was as simple as that._

 _Still, he does feel slightly grateful to his old teacher. Dumbledore's meteoric rise to greatness has only helped Tom reaffirm one of his most dearly held beliefs: In order to achieve_ _ **real**_ _power, one must be willing to go far as it takes._

 _Tom has been biding his time for a while now: watching, waiting for the perfect moment. And if he has to be entirely honest with himself, he has even felt a slight amount of hesitation. This was a huge step after all; once he got started on his journey to become the greatest wizard of them all, there would be absolutely no turning back. No matter how hard it became, no matter what he had to sacrifice, no matter how much blood he had to shed..._

 _ **Lord Voldemort** never left things half-done, after all._

 _Yesterday, when Hepzibah Smith showed him the two relics she had in her possession, Slytherin's locket and Hufflepuff's cup, he had realized that the time had finally arrived. For his family's lost heirloom and another of the Founders' treasures to appear before him so suddenly...it was no mere coincidence. It was a sign that Fate was undoubtedly at work here. His destiny had finally come calling, and he had no desire to ignore it._

 _The fact that old Hepzibah had to die for his destiny to truly begin didn't disturb him in the slightest. He was only taking back what was rightfully his, after all. Such priceless relics did not belong in the grubby paws of a greedy old crone._

 _He smirks softly to himself. That memory modification spell he used on Morfin Gaunt back then...he wonders if it would work on a house-elf? Well, there's only one way to find out._

 _Decision made, he gets to his feet. A few flicks of his wand packs all of his meagre possessions. It is time to say goodbye to Borgin and Burkes._

 _Well, not goodbye...since he **fully** intends to return to Britain at the end of his travels._

 _Only he would not be returning as the orphan Tom Riddle; no, when he finally returned it would be as the Dark Lord Voldemort, the **strongest wizard in the world**._

The snake has made itself comfortable in the hollow of the rotten stump. It is prepared for several months of brumation.

As he drifts off to sleep, the Dark Lord's dreams are filled with visions of bright-green eyes.

 _He makes his way silently across the dark street._

 _He is close...so very close. He can feel it in his bones._

 _Suddenly a house materializes before his very eyes. The Fidelius has been broken, though its occupants are not aware of it yet. He draws level with the dark hedge and peers over it._

 _The curtains are not drawn; he can see them quite clearly in their little sitting room, the tall black-haired man in his glasses, making puffs of colored smoke erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small black-haired boy in his blue pajamas. The child is laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in his small fist...  
_

 _A door opens and the mother enters, saying words he cannot hear, her long dark-red hair falling over her face. Now the father scoops up the son and hands him to the mother. He throws his wand down upon the sofa and stretched, yawning...  
_

 _The gate creaks a little as he pushes it open, but no one hears._

 _He pulls out the bone-white wand beneath his cloak and points it at the door, which bursts open._

 _James Potter comes sprinting into the hall, wand in hand._

" _Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"_

 _The fight that follows is one of the best he's ever been in. Potter uses his skills in transfiguration to their utmost. Voldemort also notes with no small amount of admiration that the young man has laid out several strategically-placed traps in his living room. This combined with his formidable duelling skills is actually giving him a little bit of trouble._

 _But not for long. He_ _ **is**_ _Lord Voldemort, after all._

 _He looks down at the broken form of James Potter slumped against the wall. The defiance in those eyes both amuses and impresses him. Voldemort has always admired courage in his opponents._

 _He rewards the young man with a painless death. Green light fills the room before he makes his way upstairs._

 _He can hear the woman screaming from the upper floor, no doubt panicking over her ineffectual escape attempts. He has made sure to cast his strongest anti-apparition and anti-portkey wards before entering. Not even Albus Dumbledore with his bloody phoenix could hope to breach them!_

 _He climbs the steps, listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in. The foolish mudblood has no wand in her hands. How stupid of her, really…_

 _He forces the door open, throwing aside the chair and boxes hastily piled against it with one lazy wave of his wand...and there she is, the child in her arms._

 _At the last sight of him, she drops her son into the crib behind her and throws her arms wide, as if this would help, as if in shielding him from sight she hoped to be chosen instead..._

" _Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"_

 _Looking back now, he should have suspected something. After all, the woman standing before him was no ordinary mudblood. No, she was the "_ _ **Bleeding Lily**_ _", one of the strongest and most feared fighters in Dumbledore's order; the only mudblood to have ever fought him personally before (along with her husband) and escaped. Thrice._

 _He should have realized that something was amiss when he saw no wand in her hand. He should have paused, looked closer, and considered the situation carefully before moving forward._

 _But he is drunk on power. He has just come out of a wonderful fight, and his adrenaline-soaked mind does not dwell for long upon the finer details._

" _Stand aside, you silly girl...stand aside now."_

" _Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead..."_

 _He grits his teeth in anger. Had he not promised this wench to that pathetic servant of his, he would have obliterated her the second he entered the room. "This is my last warning..."_

" _Not Harry! Please...have mercy...have mercy...Not Harry! Not Harry! Please...I'll do anything..."_

 _Voldemort hates it when his victims beg for mercy, when they grovel and snivel at his feet like cowards. It's one of the reasons he frequently uses the Cruciatus on his own servants. He enjoys domination over others, but only upto a point._

" _Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!"_

" _Please! Please...not my baby..."_

 _Her shrill voice finally gets on his nerves. He casts the killing curse on the mudblood and watches her drop like a marionette with her strings cut._

 _He moves towards the crib. Incredibly, the child has not cried all this time. He is standing, clutching the bars of his crib and looking up at him with a kind of bright interest..._

 _Voldemort sneers. This..._ _ **thing**_ _is the personification of everything he despises. A child born out of a union between a pureblood wizard and a witch of the dirtiest blood. It is an abomination, and as far as he is concerned, he is doing their world a favor by destroying it..._

 _Had he been paying attention at that moment, he might have noticed a few rune clusters drawn in blood at certain points in the room, with a ritual circle right underneath the crib; he might have noticed a small symbol like a lightning-bolt drawn on the toddler's forehead in blood, barely hidden by his bangs; he might have noticed how the mudblood's beseeching expression had morphed into a vicious smirk a second before the killing curse hit her..._

 _But he notices none of these things. Instead he merely levels his wand at the child's face and casts his favorite curse: " **Avada Kedavra!** "_

 _And then he is broken. Pain beyond anything he has ever known floods his senses, and he knows he must hide himself, not here in the rubble of the ruined house, where the child was trapped and screaming, but far away...far away..._

 _His last thought, as he flees the ruins of the Potters' home, is that the old muggle-loving fool had been right about one thing in his life:_ _ **Hubris**_ _had truly been his greatest flaw._

The snake is startled awake by a sudden tremor. It raises its head, trying to pinpoint the source of its disturbance.

A low voice is heard. "Bloody buggering shite!"

The unmistakeable British accent attracts Voldemort's attention. He lies still, listening to the voice intently, his tongue flickering outwards to taste the air.

Male...mid-thirties...and what is this... _Magical_?

 _A wizard._ _How interesting..._

"Bloody forests! Bloody trees! Bloody Hinkypunks leading me off the path..."

Voldemort slowly slithered out of his hiding place to regard the cursing man, currently dancing on one foot while massaging the other.

"Should never have come this far, Quirinus old boy," he mumbled to himself. "Should've stuck to teaching Muggle Studies. But oh no," his voice becomes high-pitched and mocking, "oh no, Professor Dumbledore sir, I _really_ want to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. Just give me a chance, sir. Let me spend the summer training and I _promise_ you I'll be good enough." He shook his head. "Like hell..."

The mention of Dumbledore's name sends excitement coursing through him. Without even thinking, Voldemort relinquishes control over the serpent and rushes towards the unsuspecting wizard, aiming for the back of his head.

The next moment the wizard's pain-filled screams fill the air as he rolls on the ground...clutching his head.

The Dark Lord ruthlessly burrows himself into the man's mind. The lack of occlumency shields helps, and before long his mind is filled with images...flashes of the man's memories.

 _Quirinus Quirrell...Hogwarts...Muggle Studies Professor...Dumbledore...DADA job..._

Wait...what was that? The _Philosopher's stone!?_ At _Hogwarts!?_

 _How interesting..._

"W-What's going on?" the helpless wizard screams, tears running down his cheeks.

"Calm down, Quirinussssss..."

The wizard doubles up in pain. The back of his head feels like it's about to explode. "W-What i-is h-h-happening to me? W-who a-a-are y-you?" he stammers weakly.

Voldemort smiles briefly as his face appears on the back of that hapless wizard's head, feeling a strange sort of happiness he has not experienced in years. "You can call me... _Master_."

* * *

Voldemort's original plan to infiltrate the school to steal the Philosopher's stone (after the failed break-in at Gringotts) had been shot to pieces in a matter of months. His attempt at creating a diversion using the troll had attracted Dumbledore's attention, just as he'd feared; and to make matters worse he ended up being unmasked within Quirrell's own quarters and found himself duelling the ancient wizard. Fortunately he'd had the foresight to create an escape plan: an explosive concoction hidden away in an abandoned classroom, remotely detonated by a parseltongue-activated rune. Dumbledore's concern for his students overriding his desire to fight gave him just enough time to get out of the range of Hogwarts' wards and activate his emergency portkey.

But all this had come at a price. The use of all this magic ended up overwhelming Quirrell's already weak body and the wizard was dead as soon as they arrived at his safe-house in Albania.

It was then that Voldemort had realized that he'd have to take a much more _subtle_ approach at regaining his body.

All in all, his brief stay at Hogwarts hadn't been a complete waste. While the Philosopher's stone was certainly lost to him, he had managed to gather a great deal of information on a much more valuable resource: _Harry Potter_.

Voldemort had honestly been surprised at his good fortune when he'd seen the young Boy-Who-Lived entering into the school in that year. Not being one to waste such an opportunity, he had quickly started gathering as much data as he could on the child who was _supposedly_ his downfall.

He had been disappointed, to say the least. While it was true that the boy was talented for his age, there was nothing inherently _special_ about him. He was a typical Gryffindor: playing quidditch, helping his friends with their homework, rescuing pathetic mudbloods with a penchant for getting themselves into trouble...

He was even unable to protect himself when Voldemort had hexed his broom on a lark. It had taken that hyperactive mudblood friend of his to, quite accidentally, save the brat's skin by breaking his concentration.

No, there was nothing about the boy that even remotely suggested that _he_ was the one destined to be his vanquisher. The prophecy had been false, and Voldemort had simply fallen to his own overconfidence and the wiles of a particularly cunning mudblood (as much as it pained him to admit it).

Still, that didn't mean that the boy didn't have his uses...

An old ritual came to mind. One that required three specific ingredients, along with a rare necromantic potion, to create a new body for him; and if Voldemort's guess was correct, using the Potter boy's blood in that ritual would make his body stronger than even his old one had been, not to mention having the delicious side-benefit of negating that troublesome blood protection...

Yes, it would be perfect. It would be better than even using the Stone. The only downside he could see was that he'd need one, preferably three, able bodied servants to carry out the ritual.

There was no other choice. Voldemort resigned himself to a few more years of waiting until he could run across another wizard whose help he could use.

Two years later, his prayers were answered.

* * *

If the Dark Lord was in the habit of sighing loudly, he would.

Of all the wizards who could have come to find him, it just _had_ to be Wormtail.

Still, beggars couldn't be choosers. Voldemort had spent so much time drifting aimlessly within the forests of Albania that at this point he would have accepted help even from a house-elf.

 _Though Wormtail is hardly better..._

Then again, he supposed he was being too harsh on the idiot. Whatever his reasons were, at least Wormtail had had the fortitude to search him out. He had also, despite his failings as a wizard, carried out his assigned tasks well. He had kidnapped a baby from the village to create a homunculus form for Voldemort (which helped the Dark Lord prepare the delicate potion with his own hands); he had, through a stroke of sheer dumb luck, brought him that Ministry witch...Jorkins,who turned out to be the wildcard that set his games into motion.

Voldemort had enjoyed the woman's screams, and he had been overjoyed at the information she'd possessed. So overjoyed in fact, that he'd used her death to create another horcrux which he'd stored inside the snake he'd lately gotten rather fond of.

His decision to embed a part of his soul into the snake had had rather pleasant consequences. It had led to an increase in her strength and intelligence, as well as providing him with a ready source of incredibly potent venom. The fact that Nagini (as he lovingly named her after his former familiar, killed in a duel with Albus Dumbledore in the War) was a much more stimulating conversationalist than the constantly whimpering rat was simply a bonus, in his opinion.

Rescuing Barty Jr had been surprisingly easy. Subduing Alastor Moody and getting Barty to take his place, however, had been much more difficult.

It had taken the combined effort of Voldemort, Wormtail and Barty to overwhelm Moody with the Imperius and lock him into his own trunk. Their plan had also come dangerously close to failure when the noise of their attack attracted the muggle law enforcement. Fortunately, a not-too-bright Ministry worker had prevented things from escalating further.

Voldemort had anticipated that getting around the protections on the Goblet of Fire might turn out to be a problem. Luckily, it was Dumbledore himself who solved that problem for them by sharing details on the ward schema around the artefact (he _had_ hired Moody as his security consultant, after all). It took two days for the Dark Lord to properly enchant the ring Barty would need to get past them.

It was here that Voldemort ran into his first obstacle. Somehow, Barty had gone and gotten himself captured on Halloween, the very night the champions were to be chosen. Voldemort had, of course, considered this possibility in his plans (Dumbledore was nothing if not observant, after all) and stationed Wormtail on a lookout at the front door. The moment his servant alerted him of a number of Ministry workers apparating in, the Dark Lord killed Crouch Sr and activated his emergency portkey, taking them both back to the safety of the heavily warded Riddle Manor.

It was at that point that Voldemort had seriously regretted not ordering Barty to simply slip a portkey to the boy on his first Hogsmeade visit and get the ritual done. He knew, despite the lack of news in the Prophet, that his servant had been lost to him permanently, and with him was lost his only source of information within Hogwarts' walls.

He had to remind himself to be patient. Rituals were a complex bit of magic, and every last detail mattered. Voldemort was extremely skilled at Arithmancy and as such knew the significance of the numbers 3, 5, 7 and 9. The fact that a fourteen year old Harry Potter (his age numerically adding up to the number 5) would be completing 3 tasks to fall into the Dark Lord's hands would give the ritual a tremendous boost in power. The fact that the ritual would be taking place on the twenty fourth of June (so close to the summer solstice) would only enhance its chances of success.

 _But how to turn the Cup into a portkey right under the Headmaster's crooked nose?_

 _Headmaster..._ A cold smile lit up the Dark Lord's face when he recalled one of Junior's last reports. The headmaster of Durmstrang was one of his former servants, and if Crouch Senior's memories were to be believed...a traitor to his comrades.

Voldemort wondered just how far the wily Karkaroff would be willing to go to avoid his master's wrath?

A simple letter bearing his signature set the last phase of the plan into motion. As predicted, Harry Potter turned up at the graveyard right at the appointed time.

Voldemort watched with satisfaction as a stunning blow to the back of the head (delivered by Wormtail who was hidden in the grass) saw the Boy-Who-Lived hit the ground.

It was time for the Dark Lord to rise once again.

* * *

Theatricality and deception were powerful weapons against the weak-minded.

It was another lesson that Lord Voldemort always kept in mind.

It was why he didn't lose his composure for even a fraction of a second when little more than half a dozen Death Eaters answered his call. He retained his calm countenance, casually speaking to his servants as if their last meeting had been a scant few days ago. Inwardly, however, he seethed at the sheer arrogance and stupidity of his absent servants. Did the fools believe that whatever small scraps of power and influence they'd gained in his absence would be sufficient to protect them from his wrath? Did they truly believe that the insolence of ignoring his summons would go unpunished?

As he walked past another empty space between his vassals, he pondered upon the noticeable absence of one Lucius Malfoy. Out of all of his wayward servants, it was the slippery Lucius who had made best possible use of his gold and cunning after his defeat. He had been greatly impressed to learn that Malfoy had the ear of the Minister himself, and had looked forward to using that influence to destroy the ministry from the inside.

Lucius' unexpected defiance was... _troubling_ , to say the least.

It seemed to Voldemort that he had truly overestimated Lucius' cunning if the wizard was foolish enough to ignore his master's summons. But then he supposed he shouldn't be surprised; after all, a decade of peace tends to make most men rather complacent. He would take great pleasure in curing Lucius' delusions of grandeur...preferably by making him watch as he tortured and disfigured his beloved wife before his very eyes.

 _Oh yes_ , Voldemort thought. He would _definitely_ take a great deal of pleasure in that.

But all in good time. Right now, he had a job to do. He had to make the best possible impression upon the few of his servants who were smart enough to answer his call. Already he could see the seeds of doubt in their worthless minds, wondering if they had made the right choice by obeying his summons so promptly.

No, this would not do. These doubts about his power had be squashed ruthlessly before they were allowed to take hold.

As the opening salvo, he conjured a new silver hand (a powerful piece of transfiguration) for the pathetic Wormtail sobbing at his feet. He noted his servants' looks of appreciation and awe with approval. Then, he proceeded to cast the Cruciatus curse upon the hapless Boy-Who-Lived. He took great pleasure in watching those green eyes grow moist with pain, watched as the body of his most hated nemesis (besides Dumbledore) convulsed under the curse.

Looking back, he really should not have stopped the curse at that point. He should have continued subjecting the wretched child to the torture until his mind was completely shattered. Better yet, he should have killed the boy when he had him bound and helpless. He should have chopped off his head, dismembered his corpse, set his pieces on fire and scattered the ashes to the winds.

But he had not done so. No, Voldemort had been too concerned about appearing weak before his acolytes. He did not want to come across as a weak and cowardly wizard who had to disarm and tie up a fourteen-year old before he could kill him. He had to lay to rest any doubts that any of the men in that clearing could have: that he, _Lord Voldemort_ , was the greatest wizard alive. No one could ever hope to match his power; not that muggle-loving fool of a headmaster, and certainly not the bloody Boy-Who-got-lucky-and-lived!

So he ordered Wormtail to untie the boy and return his wand; he ordered his men to sit back and watch as he destroyed the one who caused his downfall all those years ago. He, Lord Voldemort, would annihilate the child in a proper duel, and put to rest any doubts about his abilities once and for all.

Voldemort had no idea he was making a mistake he would come to sorely regret.

* * *

"Finally! I thought you were _never_ going to shut up!"

Voldemort blinked in shock as the impertinent child got to his feet and stretched his limbs.

"What did you just say?" he whispered quietly.

"I said," the Boy-Who-Lived-to-be suicidal gave a huge yawn, "that you nearly bored me to death with your yapping back there."

The whole graveyard was as silent as it could be. The Death Eaters seemed to be holding their breath in shock at the blatant disrespect shown towards their master.

"I had no idea," Voldemort breathed, still staring at the impudent boy in wonder, "that you were so impatient to meet you end, Potter."

"Impatient, _yes_. To meet my end, _no_." Harry Potter gave him a most unsettling grin. "I've waited a long time to kick your scaly arse, Moldyshorts."

There was a collective gasp from the Death Eaters. Voldemort shot them a glare, before turning around to regard his brazen opponent once again.

"You will learn to show respect to your _betters_ , Potter!" He hissed. " _Imperio!_ "

The Dark Lord watched the boy stumble slightly due to the force of the curse. He smirked to himself.

' _Fall to your knees and beg for my forgiveness_ ,' he ordered.

The Boy-Who-Lived-to-infuriate-him merely cocked his head to the side and smirked. "Nah...don't think so, Wankermort."

Voldemort was beside himself with rage. "So be it," he thundered. " _Cruc..._ "

Potter's smirk widened.

And the Dark Lord's world exploded.

Voldemort hardly had time to put up a shield before an explosion tore through the ground, ripping through the huddled Death Eaters and sending a mass of limbs and burned flesh flying all over the graveyard.

Unfortunately for the Dark Lord, he had yet to get used to his new body after spending over a decade as a wraith. Whereas before an explosion like that would've barely gotten a reaction, this unexpected eruption forced him backwards several paces.

Voldemort barely registered his foot coming into contact with something metallic before another detonation occurred, right underneath him.

He screamed in pain as white hot flames erupted from beneath him, his right foot disappearing in a mass of gore and only his lightning quick reflexes, enabling him to draw his shield into a protective cocoon, prevented the rest of his body from following suit.

Even as he hit the ground, screaming in pain, a single thought went through his agony-ridden mind: _No, not my horcrux..._

" _ **Nagini!**_ " he bellowed through his pain. " _ **Hide quickly!**_ "

Voldemort chanced a glance around the graveyard. His enhanced hearing could pick up something heavy slithering away into the trees, confirming that his familiar had obeyed his orders. He saw a golden dome shimmering in the dust, signifying the shield Potter had thrown up just as the first explosion hit. He raised his wand, about to send a curse at the infernal child...

...only to be hit in the back with a Cruciatus curse.

Voldemort doubled up in agony, gritting his teeth together to prevent any sound from escaping his mouth. He saw, through the haze of pain, a figure in hooded black robes step out of the shadows casting the curse upon him.

 _Potter brought an ally along with him. But how...?_

"Hey Voldyprick!" The Boy-Who-Lived said, casually sauntering over to where the Dark Lord was still twitching on the ground. "Here's a question for you: what's worse than getting hit by a Cruciatus curse?"

Voldemort glared impotently at the brat, desperately trying to reach his wand which went flying from his hand moments ago. Just a few more feet...

A scream tore from his mouth as the pain doubled in intensity.

Potter's grin was positively feral. "The answer is: getting hit by _two_ Cruciatus curses...at the same bloody time!"

For what felt like an eternity, Voldemort lay screaming on the graveyard floor. His nerves were getting destroyed, thousands of white hot knives were cutting into his body, only his powerful occlumency shields were preventing his brain from being destroyed...

And then the pain slowly let up, and the Dark Lord slowly opened his eyes to look at the hooded figure standing next to Potter. "W-Who...?" he croaked.

"Oh, you want to know who my mysterious ally is?" the Boy-Who-Lived said. "Well, I suppose I should tell you, since you were kind enough to invite me to your rebirthing party." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "He's the one person in the world who I trust more than any other: my one _true_ friend."

Voldemort's eyes widened slightly in surprise. Who exactly _was_ this person?

The figure standing beside the boy stepped forward and threw back his hood.

Voldemort's jaw dropped.

* * *

 **AN: Dun, dun, dun...a cliffhanger! And yeah, I know you guys probably hate me right now :)  
**

 **So yeah, I've decided to stick with Voldemort's depiction in GOF: where he's a cool, calculating, charming megalomaniac (seriously, his little speech in the Little Hangleton graveyard is my favorite part of the whole series). He is _not_ going to act like a crazy psychopath (as he does in DH) in this story.**

 **I decided to include a fight scene between James Potter and Voldy, since I find it very hard to believe that a former Marauder and someone who is frequently described as a very bright student (not to mention former head boy) would be stupid enough to _not_ have some kind of contingency plan in case of an attack. Then there is the whole inconsistency in canon: in PS we clearly see Voldy telling Harry that his father put a "courageous fight", but in DH we see James not even having his wand in his hand when the Dark Lord attacks.**

 **Special thanks to ladysavay for her excellent feedback and frequent reviews.**

 **Next chapter: Who is Harry's mysterious helper? And will the Boy-Who-lived emerge victorious, or does the Dark Lord still have something else up his sleeve?**

 **Lets see those reviews people :)**


	16. The Best Laid Plans - II

"Surprise, gobshite!"

Voldemort stared in open shock at the grinning face of Harry Potter emerging from under the hood.

 _ **Two** Potters!?_

Immediately the gears in the Dark Lord's mind started turning. It couldn't be Polyjuice, since he was sure that the boy he'd used in the ritual was the real Boy-Who-Lived; it wasn't a glamor, since his eyes could see through even the strongest Illusion charms; not to mention that he could feel the same kind of magical energy emanating from both the boys, proving without a doubt that they were both the same individual . . . . .

 _That leaves only one possibility. . . . .  
_

"Oh look at that! Old Moldywarts finally figured it out!" the Potter on the left said.

"Uh-huh. Looks like he's got _some_ brains after all." The new Potter whipped off his cloak and passed it to the other boy, and Voldemort caught a glimpse of a golden chain at the end of which was a small hourglass.

 _A **Time Turner**! Why that sneaky brat. . . .  
_

"Two turns should do it."

With a nod the boy on the left put on the cloak and spun the tiny hourglass around his own neck. Voldemort was so busy gaping at the spot where the teenager had vanished that the Cruciatus that hit him next took him completely by surprise.

"Who said you could stop screaming, arsehole!?"

Voldemort grit his teeth and thrashed on the ground as the Boy-Who-Lived increased the intensity of the curse.

"You'd be surprised," Potter said, "just how much damage a simple hand grenade and a well-placed landmine can do." His vicious smirk widened. "I wonder how the Wizarding world will react when they find out that the great Dark Lord Volemart was defeated by weapons developed by a bunch of ' _filthy muggles_ '. Why, I think they. . . . "

" _Avada Kedavra!_ "

Potter jumped aside as a green light flew by where he'd been standing barely a second ago. He whirled around to see an injured Death Eater standing several feet away, his wand outstretched.

The Boy-Who-Lived snarled in anger. " _Diffindo!_ "

A wide beam of energy lanced across the graveyard, neatly slicing the offending Dark wizard into two. It was over in less than five seconds.

Fortunately, those precious few seconds were _exactly_ what the Dark Lord needed to regain his bearings.

With a roar of anger, Voldemort unleashed his power. Harry Potter barely had time to register anything before a massive tidal wave of magical energy sent him flying across the graveyard.

An ordinary wizard would have been rendered helpless without his wand, an ordinary wizard would have taken weeks to recover from such intense applications of the Cruciatus, an ordinary wizard would have been at death's door after taking a landmine blast head on. . . .

Lord Voldemort was anything _but_ an ordinary wizard.

Channelling his magic to its limit, Voldemort got to his knees and thrust out his right hand. His bone-white wand, which had been lying a few feet away, flew into it.

"You _dare_. . . " Voldemort spat. "You dare use the Dark Arts upon _me_ , Potter? Me, the _Dark Lord Voldemort_? You dare to cast the Cruciatus curse upon _my_ person!?" He sneered as the Boy-Who-Lived got to his feet. "Let me show you what it _truly_ means to cause someone pain. _Crucio!_ "

Potter flicked his wand, causing a mound of earth to rise upwards and form a protective barrier. The sheer power behind Voldemort's curse was so great, however, that it tore through the shield of stone as though it were made of tissue paper and hit the boy squarely in the chest, sending him flying.

For a split second the teenager was suspended in the air, screaming in utter agony, and then he flew a good thirty feet before smashing into a stone statue with such force that the sound of his bones snapping could be heard from across the graveyard.

But the Dark Lord wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot.

* * *

The one thing that set him apart from other Dark Wizards, or indeed other powerful witches and wizards in general, was that Voldemort had a very _unique_ way of using his immense reserves of magical power. While ancient wizards like Dumbledore often flared their magical aura outwards in a show of dominance and intimidation, Voldemort preferred to use it in a much more _constructive_ manner.

Unlike other less-imaginative magicals the Dark Lord focused his magical energy inwards, using it to enhance his body's capabilities. His vision, his hearing, his sense of smell, taste, touch. . . . . all of them were greatly enhanced by his magic. He even used his power to improve other attributes such as the strength of his muscles, his stamina and the resilience of his inner organs like the heart and lungs. He could even induce a kind of weightlessness in his body, enabling him to fly without a broom if need be.

But the greatest gift his huge magical core gave him was his ability to create and inhabit a one-of-its-kind magically-constructed body.

Most people (like a certain muggle-loving headmaster) were of the opinion that his distinctive appearance was _his_ way of separating himself from humanity in general. While partly true, that was not the entire case.

Few people realized that Voldemort's greatest achievement was the special magical construct that he had turned his body into. Apart from greatly increasing his resistance to magical curses and poisons, and reducing his dependence on food, water and sleep, his body played another very important role.

It increased his self-healing capability to _superhuman_ levels.

Voldemort's greatest power was his ability to repair any wounds he received at an incredibly high rate. Injuries that would take weeks for a normal wizard to recover from would be healed in a couple of days, deep-tissue damage would be repaired in matter of hours. In fact, Voldemort could regenerate entire parts of his body if he so wished to, without the aid of any potions or healing spells. His skill at occlumency and intense exposure to horrific Dark rituals was more than sufficient to help him handle any lingering mental trauma.

It was _this_ extraordinary ability that served to bolster his already fearsome reputation. Voldemort recalled one particularly famous battle in 1974, where a bunch of aurors had managed to trap him inside a building and used Fiendfyre to burn it down. The Dark Lord took the full brunt of the eldritch flame head-on, and still managed to recover from his injuries in two days. The look on the aurors faces when he led the raid on Diagon Alley barely a week later had been priceless, and forever cemented his reputation as the greatest Dark Lord of all time.

And this was all _before_ the Halloween of 1981.

Now, with a body created from a dark ritual using the blood of an incredibly powerful foe, his regenerative capabilities were beyond anything the world had ever seen.

Closing his eyes in concentration Voldemort allowed his magic to pour into his body, healing his injuries. His damaged tissues and nerves repaired themselves, the lingering aftereffects of the Cruciatus disappeared, his destroyed right leg began to form once again: bone, muscles, blood vessels, skin. . . . all of them growing outwards at an incredibly accelerated rate.

In less than a minute, Lord Voldemort was standing on his feet, looking for all the world as though he'd never been injured to begin with. He opened his eyes, taking a deep breath. . . . .revelling in the feel of his magic encircling him like a vortex. He smirked at the weakly stirring form of the Boy-Who-Lived at the base of the marble statue.

" _Behold_ , Harry Potter!" He spread out his arms dramatically. "Behold the _perfection_ that is Lord Voldemort! Do you see _now_ why it is that I am the greatest sorcerer in the world? Do you understand now why it is that the sheep of this world are afraid to utter my very _name_?"

The Dark Lord sneered at the expression of fear and loathing on the boy's face, as he struggled to sit up against the stone. "Did you really think that you would be victorious simply by taking me by surprise? Did you _seriously_ delude yourself into believing that this encounter would end with anything less than your death?"

Voldemort took another deep breath and quickly reinforced his occlumency shields. Now was not the time to give into his emotions, as much as he wanted to.

"I must confess though. . . . your defiance impresses me. I had believed that you were merely a pampered little Gryffindor, a stooge of that muggle-loving fool of a headmaster. . . . but you are something else entirely, Potter." He nodded quietly. "Oh yes. . . . you are something else indeed."

"Tonight you have accomplished something that no one. . . not even your precious Dumbledore has ever managed. You actually succeeded in bringing Lord Voldemort to his knees, even if it was for only a few minutes. You actually managed to gain the upper hand over _me_. . . . however short-lived it may have been." He smiled cruelly at the boy. "Such power, such intelligence, such _courage_ is worthy of a great reward."

Voldemort ran his wand over the palm of his left hand, forming a deep cut and allowing a small amount of nearly blackened blood to drip onto the ground. Then he raised his wand upwards, pointing to the sky, and started chanting rapidly under his breath.

Slowly the magic in the surroundings began to coalesce around him, until he was standing in a veritable maelstrom of power; the air was getting thick with barely concealed energy, magical power rolling off the Dark Lord in waves. Harry Potter threw up a small golden shield around himself as the energy swept forth like a tidal wave, washing over the entire graveyard.

The Dark Lord's crimson eyes blazed in the darkness, black tendrils of energy dancing all over his body. "I am about to give you a _gift_ , Harry. I am about to show you a curse of my own invention. . . . one that I specifically developed to defeat your dear Headmaster. It is without a doubt the darkest of curses within my arsenal, and one that I have never had the opportunity to use against any of my opponents." His cruel smile widened at the boy's alarmed expression. "You should be honored."

Voldemort pointed his wand directly at the offending child. "Goodbye Harry Potter, and go to your grave with the knowledge that Lord Voldemort considers you a worthy foe."

" _Mando tibi per magiae nihilum inimicus!_ "

A powerful dark purple beam of light lit up the entire graveyard, burning so brightly that even the Dark Lord was forced to shield his eyes momentarily. It then lanced across the clearing, straight at the helpless teenager sitting on the ground.

Voldemort allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as his newest creation raced towards his downed opponent. He had spent close to a year creating this particularly vile curse, experimenting intensely upon the hapless witches and wizards his followers kidnapped during the First War. He had only managed to perfect it a few months before his fall in 1981.

The curse itself was based off a particularly vile poison, known to Dark Wizards all over the world as the _Magic Destroyer_. As the name suggested, it was a potion that had the unique capacity to affect, not the victim's body, but their magical core.

A muggle or squib who drank the potion would be completely unaffected; but to a witch or wizard, it was perhaps the worst kind of poison in existence.

Simply put, the poison overheated a person's magical core, causing their own magic to tear them apart inside out. There was no cure for this. . . . since even the strongest antidotes, like phoenix tears, worked only on a person's body, not their core. There was nothing to be done once the potion was ingested, except to watch as the victim was destroyed inside out from the chaotic magic swirling within theim. . . until their body exploded outwards with all that pent up energy, enough to kill anyone stupid enough to be within arm's reach.

And the best part: the stronger the victim was magically, the _worse_ it affected them.

Voldemort had come across this evil concoction while perusing some rare tomes on Egyptian Dark Magic. He was greatly taken by the idea, visions of killing a certain meddlesome old man dancing in his head. A more detailed study, however, quickly made him realize why even the darkest of wizards hesitated to use the Magic Destroyer.

The potion was incredibly complex and required a huge payment to be made: in order to produce even a small amount of the poison, the brewer had to magically sacrifice half of their lifespan.

To someone like Voldemort, the cost was simply unacceptable.

Hypothetically speaking he could have prepared the potion if he wanted to, since his horcruxes would have prevented any harmful effects on his lifespan. But he refused to take such a risk on mere speculation.

Thus he spent close to a decade of his life researching more Dark Magic and trying to figure out a way to replicate the potion's effects via a spell. A year of intense spell-crafting (and the invaluable assistance of the Unspeakable Rookwood) finally helped him achieve his goal.

The only drawback to the spell was that it took a great deal of magic to power it, even for him. The time required to cast it also eliminated any chances of using it on the battlefield. On the plus side, the amount of magical disturbance it created was enough to distort all active magic in its surroundings. . . . meaning that shields, barriers, counter-curses, portkeys, even apparition would be useless.

No, the only way for Harry Potter to avoid that curse was for another living being to jump into its path. . . .something that there was a shortage of in that graveyard at the moment.

Voldemort watched as the Boy-Who-Lived dropped his shield and shakily held out his wand.

" _Expelliarmus!_ "

The Dark Lord blinked in utter disbelief. A _disarming charm?_ What in the name of Morgana was the boy thinking!? Did Potter really believe that a simple disarming charm would be enough to counter his most devastating curse?

Perhaps he had overestimated the child. Or perhaps Potter hit his head hard against the statue back then. . . .

A smaller red jet of light flew from Potter's wand and landed against the column of magical energy heading his way.

And then the impossible happened.

To the Dark Lord's horror, the massive beam of energy emanating from his wand halted in mid-air where the boy's spell met, and then his wand started vibrating powerfully. Voldemort's hand seized up around it; he couldn't have released it if he'd wanted to. . . .and a narrow beam of light connected the two wands, neither red nor purple, but bright, deep gold. He followed the beam with his astonished gaze and saw that the Boy-Who-Lived's fingers too were gripping a wand that was shaking and vibrating. And worse, the boy was actually smirking in a very satisfied manner.

 _What has that blasted boy done now. . .!?_

Voldemort racked his brains trying to figure out what was going on. He knew without a shadow of doubt that the spell that Potter had cast had indeed been a disarming charm. But how could a simple curse like that overcome _his_ strongest spell?

 _Unless it hasn't been overcome. What if it's been_ _ **nullified**_ _instead?_

But how could two wands possibly nullify each other's. . . .?

Then it hit him.

 _Priori Incantatem_ _!_

He looked more carefully at the golden thread. There was no doubt about it. . . . this was definitely the fabled reverse-spell effect that took place whenever two brother wands met in a duel.

 _So Potter has been carrying around the brother to my wand all this time!? How interesting. . . .  
_

Voldemort shook his head. No, this was not the time to be worrying about such things. Already the golden beam between their wands was beginning to splinter off; in a few minutes they would both be stuck inside a cage, if he remembered correctly, and then who knows what would happen next. . .

He had to act fast.

Concentrating, Voldemort did his best to withdraw energy from the wand, trying to break the connection. Unfortunately the Boy-Who-Lived seemed to be doing his very best to thwart his efforts, fighting hard to maintain the connection. . . . a rather disturbing glint in his eyes.

 _Blasted boy!_

There was no other choice.

The Dark Lord stretched out his free hand, wandlessly summoning the silver knife Wormtail had left behind. Gripping it tightly, he swung the knife against his other hand.

Stifling a small scream of pain, Voldemort watched as his hand was neatly severed at the wrist and the golden beam between the wands broke.

The Dark Lord stumbled backwards a few steps, panting in exhaustion and cradling his bleeding arm. He then picked up his wand, kicking aside the severed appendage and savored the look of shocked horror on the Boy-Who-Lived's face.

 _You still have much to learn about fighting, boy. . . .  
_

He absently tapped his bleeding stump with his wand, causing a small bandage to wrap around it. He wasn't that worried about losing his hand, seeing as he was positive it would grow back by the next day.

No, what Voldemort was worried about was his current predicament.

As much as he wanted to, he knew he could not kill Harry Potter today. The connection between their wands would make any spells cast on the boy useless. He could try to physically overpower the child and snap his neck, but with his knowledge of that blasted prophecy still incomplete the risk was too great.

Voldemort took a deep breath and reinforced his occlumency shields again. He had had more than his fair share of reckless action for tonight. It was obvious from the boy's expression that he had known about the connection between their wands for quite some time now, and had merely been waiting for an opportune moment to exploit it. Had Voldemort simply obliviated the accursed child and sent him back to Hogwarts, no one would have been any the wiser about his resurrection. Instead, the few Death Eaters who had answered his call were dead, he had accidentally ended up revealing one of his trump cards to the enemy and by the next morning the entire _country_ would know of his return if Potter were to return to Hogwarts.

Voldemort continued to glare at the Boy-Who-Lived, wondering if there was a way to safely knock him out and. . . .

" _Accio!_ "

The sudden shout startled the Dark Lord. A _summoning_ charm? What was he. . . ?

Then he saw it. . . the golden cup racing towards the boy. He raised his wand and cast a powerful blasting curse at the teenager. . . .

. . . .only to bellow in frustration as the boy grabbed hold of the cup and disappeared, seconds before Voldemort's blasting curse pulverized the statue he'd been sitting against.

 _Wonderful. Just wonderful. . . .  
_

In his haste to regain his body, the Dark Lord had completely forgotten to adjust the anti-portkey wards to block the cup. A single miscalculation had cost him _everything_ tonight.

But there was no use crying over spilt potion. Whether he liked it or not, by tomorrow the entire world would know of his return. . . and there was _nothing_ he could do about it!

Voldemort shook himself slightly. This was not the time for regrets. He had to plan his next move. He couldn't afford to stay in Little Hangleton anymore. The risk was too great! But where should he. . . .

" ** _Massssster!_** "

The cry of his familiar made him look up.

" ** _Over here! Thisssss one isssss sssssstill warm!_** "

 _Still warm?_ The Dark Lord followed the sound of Nagini's voice and found her curled around the body of one of his Death Eaters.

No, not body. . . . the wizard was still alive!

Voldemort crouched lower. It was his old classmate, Cantankerous Nott. His injuries were serious, but not imminently fatal.

 _It seems that fortune is still on my side. . . .  
_

Decision made, Voldemort quickly shot a few healing spells at the wizard. He then turned around and looked at the graveyard. A single wave of his wand removed all the debris, another wave vanished the remains of his former servants and any traces of his rebirthing ritual. For good measure, Voldemort started a small fire which would quickly spread downwind, hopefully taking Riddle Manor with it.

" ** _Secure yourself!_** " he hissed at his familiar.

After Nagini had wrapped herself around his shoulders, Lord Voldemort reached out and grabbed a fist full of Nott's robes. With one last look at the graveyard, he apparated, tearing through his own anti-apparition and portkey wards as though they were nothing.

* * *

The Dark Lord sat comfortably on his throne, a thoughtful expression on his snake-like face.

The last few days had truly been most. . . . interesting.

Upon arriving at Nott Manor with the heavily-injured family patriarch in tow, the first thing he'd done was to take control of the family wards. He then proceeded to make his own substantial additions to the wards, while a Healer from St Mungo's looked to the senior Nott's injuries. After satisfying himself that the manor was secure enough for a temporary base of operations, he'd then personally obliviated the Healer and raised the wards, completely sealing them off from the outside world.

Voldemort then dragged Nott's wife into the study, which he was currently commandeering, and proceeded to mind-rape the wretched woman, gathering all her relevant knowledge of the last three years.

What he discovered helped him make sense of a _lot_ of things.

Apparently someone had been hunting his Death Eaters relentlessly over the last year. Several of his former supporters had disappeared, or turned up dead over the last few months. The most curious thing about the whole situation was the _manner_ in which the corpses had been found. Macnair had been found with his head separated from his body (he was a Ministry Executioner for magical creatures), Yaxley had been poisoned in his own home (his specialty had been poisons), Jugson had been disembowelled (the Entrail-expelling curse being his trademark), Rowle had been beaten to death (he was famous for killing people with his bare hands). . . . .

 _Disturbingly_ poetic deaths.

This at least helped Voldemort understand why so few of his supporters had responded to his call. No doubt many of them had gone underground and were reluctant to come out into the open lest they again become targets.

 _Fools. Do they honestly believe that I cannot protect them as I always have?_

But that wasn't what was niggling at the Dark Lord. What truly perplexed him was the _identity_ of these attackers. The public had apparently dubbed them as the Vigilantes, though no had any idea as to who they could be (the Ministry being reluctant to attract negative publicity with the Tournament going on).

 _It cannot be Dumbledore's Order, they don't have the stomach for it. It cannot be another Death Eater since the murders are too poetic in nature. . ._

In the end, there was only one conclusion: there was a new player in the field. Someone with a huge grudge against the Dark Lord and his followers.

 _As if I didn't have enough enemies already. . ._

Then there was the curious case of Lucius Malfoy. Apparently his errant servant had been rather busy of late, systematically upsetting Voldemort's delicate network in the British Wizarding community over the last year. Judging from the conversation between the Nott couple and the patriarch of the Malfoy family, it almost seemed like the wizard was actively dissuading them from responding to Voldemort's call should he happen to return.

This grated on the Dark Lord's nerves. So it seemed he had been right all along! Lucius Malfoy was not only bold enough to ignore his master's summons, he was actively working against him! And judging from the number of Death Eaters who had shown up at the graveyard, he was succeeding!

It took all of Voldemort's self-control not to lay siege to Malfoy Manor at that very instant. He'd wanted nothing more than to tear down those wards with his own hands, and make the traitor watch as he butchered his family before his very eyes; he'd then skin his worthless servant alive before hanging his carcass in Diagon Alley as a reminder of the fate that awaits those who dare to defy the Dark Lord.

But then something unexpected had stayed his hand.

Voldemort had honestly been surprised when the next day's paper carried absolutely no news of his return. He had expected the entire nation to go into hysterics, but the only thing on the headlines was an article on Harry Potter's victory in the Triwizard Tournament and a small account of the Third Task.

In a way, the lack of news had troubled him. He could not help but wonder if the Ministry was simply opting to keep his return a secret while quietly gathering their own forces; so he sent the Lady Nott to the Ministry to gather information. When she'd returned at the end of the day to give her report, the Dark Lord had honestly been stumped.

Somehow, impossibly, the Minister for Magic was refusing to believe that Voldemort had indeed returned!

It got even better. Apparently Cornelius Fudge was a rather paranoid man: he'd convinced himself that Potter's account of his resurrection was a lie, and the whole thing was just a ploy by Dumbledore to steal his job. He was convinced that _Dumbledore_ was stirring up trouble just to make himself look important, and that Potter (who was the sole eyewitness) was a lying, attention-seeking brat. There were even rumors that Fudge had instructed the Prophet to run a series of articles in the coming month to discredit both the Headmaster and the Boy-Who-Lived.

Voldemort had laughed like a madman for the next half-hour upon hearing the last part.

In the end however, he had been forced to concede that his string of good luck had apparently _not_ run out like he'd originally believed. The Dark Lord still found it hard to believe that anyone could be so foolish as to disregard the prospect of his return so casually. Fudge couldn't have been helping him more if he'd been one of his Death Eaters!

But what really confused him was Lucius Malfoy's reaction to all this. It was well-known that Lucius was close to the Minister, and if he _had_ been working against Voldemort (as he'd initially suspected), it wouldn't have been difficult for him to convince Fudge to see the truth. Then why hadn't he done so?

In the end Voldemort could arrive at only a single conclusion: Lucius Malfoy was testing him.

In hindsight, it was obvious that his old friend had become even more slippery than he'd previously been. Instead of simply obeying the Dark Lord blindly, Lucius was evaluating him; he was trying to see if Voldemort still had the same skill and cunning he'd boasted of before 1981, or if the years had taken their toll on the Dark Lord as well.

No doubt Lucius had made a token effort to cut off his resources (on Dumbledore's coercion, Voldemort presumed), but the fact that he wasn't working to convince Fudge of his mistake meant that he wasn't siding with the muggle-lover either. No, Lucius was opting to stay neutral in this fight: at least until he could see a clear winning side.

Before 1981, the Dark Lord would have crucioed any of his servants for such presumptive behavior. But in this case he found he really couldn't blame Lucius that much. The man had, after all, spent a dozen years carefully building up his own wealth and power; it would be foolish of him to throw it all away in a single moment, not without ensuring all his hard-work wasn't going to waste anyways. It was the classic behavior of a true Slytherin: to always be on the winning side, no matter what the cost.

Besides, Voldemort's own conduct in the graveyard had been less than exemplary.

He cringed as he recalled that night. Morgana, he'd acted like such an amateur back then! Grandstanding before his followers was good and all, but he had thrown caution completely to the wind that night.

What was the point in fighting the Boy-Who-Lived when his own knowledge of the prophecy was still incomplete? What was the point in duelling someone whose abilities were unknown to him? Why in the name of Morgana had he simply not cast a blasting curse at the child's head before summoning his followers? If making a dramatic point was his main concern, the purpose would have been easily served with Voldemort standing over the headless corpse of the Boy-Who-Lived as his Death Eaters apparated into the graveyard. Come to think of it, it probably would have made a much better impression. . . .

Then why _had_ he done all that!?

The answer was simple: _Hubris._

Voldemort would have groaned loudly if he could. He'd thought that dying _once_ would have cured him of his pride, but that night he'd proved to himself that he'd learned _nothing_ from his mistakes. Once again, he had dived in headfirst without considering all the possible scenarios. With such reckless behavior, was it any wonder that a Slytherin like Lucius would hesitate to return to his side?

Voldemort sighed quietly and shook his head. Self-recrimination was pointless. At this point, he should be considering his next move.

He took stock of his current situation: he had the manor to use as a temporary refuge, the Nott family gold (which while sufficient for now, was nowhere near enough for future operations), his only servants right now consisted of the family patriarch still recovering from his injuries. . . . .

In short, the Dark Lord had very little in the name of resources.

It was fine, really. . . . he was used to having very little.

After all, was that not how he had started? Had he not taken his first steps to greatness with nothing but the clothes on his back? Yes, Voldemort had few assets but his cunning and ingenuity were more than sufficient for him to make the most of it. He was pretty sure that most of the safe-houses he'd set up all across of Europe were still intact, and there were the many Dark factions spread across the continent who were still loyal to him. The vampire clans in Romania, the werewolves in Serbia, the giants in Scandinavia, independent Dark Wizard factions in Bulgaria, Ukraine and Kazakhstan. . . . all of them could be easily persuaded to join his side again. Voldemort also knew of at least two villages in Latvia where he was still worshipped as a living god.

Oh yes, gathering resources and allies wouldn't be too much of a problem. He might even enjoy it. Voldemort had always liked a challenge.

As for Lucius Malfoy and his other errant servants, Voldemort was content to let them sit on the fence for now. After all, the biggest danger of forcing someone off the fence was that they might not always land on the side you want them to.

This was why the Dark Lord was currently lounging in his throne in a relaxed manner. As long as the Ministry was being willfully-blind, he had little to worry about. He could take all the time he needed to gather his army, and then take the fight straight to the enemy.

For some reason, the word ' _enemy_ ' invoked a different image than it did previously.

 _Harry Potter._ Voldemort's lipless mouth curled into a smile at the thought of the boy. He had to admit he had, however grudgingly, developed some respect for the teenager.

Looking back, the Dark Lord had to admit he had greatly misjudged the Boy-Who-Lived's capabilities. He had thought of him as the consummate Gryffindor. . . . when the child was anything but one.

The intelligence in those emerald eyes, the power behind his curses and the sheer ruthlessness of the Boy-Who-Lived greatly impressed him. That trick with the time-turner had been absolutely _ingenious_. . . . the kind of cunning Voldemort himself had employed in his early days. And despite everything he'd still had the good sense to have a back-up plan with the brother wands.

Had Voldemort been a lesser man, he doubted he'd have come out of that encounter alive.

 _Truly, the boy is a credit to his parents. . . ._

Then there was all the information young Theodore Nott had provided him. The boy was a skilled duelist, excellent at politicking (his connections were truly impressive) and had a mind that could have rivalled the Dark Lord's back in his school days. He was also, to Voldemort's surprise, rather openly critical of Dumbledore's _everyone-and-their-mother-deserves-a hundred-chances_ policy. . . . . which was a rather unusual trait for a Light wizard to have.

Then again Voldemort sincerely doubted if the boy could be even _considered_ a Light wizard. The practiced ease with which he cast the Cruciatus and his complete disregard for collateral damage put together a rather intriguing picture. The way he saw it, the Boy-Who-lived was a snake in lion's clothing. . . . which made him all the more dangerous.

But the Dark Lord wasn't really surprised. Harry Potter _was_ the Child of Prophecy, after all.

 _A shame really. I would have willingly offered him a chance to join my army if not for that blasted seer. . . ._

Voldemort surmised that he should be glad that he'd chosen to duel the boy that night. It gave him a good idea of his opponent's abilities and also gave him an opportunity to test out his new body's capabilities.

He flexed his right hand, smirking slightly. As predicted, he was a lot more powerful than he'd been back in 1981. His regenerative capabilities were beyond even _his_ wildest dreams. Voldemort was pretty sure that at this point he could easily regenerate his vital organs mid-combat, with the only exceptions being his heart and brain. Any attack that damaged any other part of his body apart from the latter two would only serve to slow him down briefly, provided anyone (except for Dumbledore and Potter) could land a hit on him to begin with.

And even if by some miracle his brain was destroyed, there were always his horcruxes.

Thinking about his soul containers made him frown slightly when he recalled that he'd given one of them to Lucius in 1978. He pondered about it for a few seconds before dismissing it from his mind. He had bigger concerns right now. Besides, the diary was just one of his _many_ horcruxes; its destruction would merely be a minor inconvenience at this point. . . . well, minor for _him_ anyways. For Lucius it would mean the slow, agonizing death of his only child before his very eyes.

Voldemort shook himself slightly. He'd had enough dawdling; now was the time to _act_.

He looked at the other end of the study, where Theodore Nott was torturing a muggle woman for the Dark Lord's amusement. Voldemort took another moment to savor the woman's screams before beckoning the young wizard.

"Rise, young Theodore," Voldemort said to the kneeling boy. "Look at me."

The young wizard hesitated before looking into his eyes fearfully. The Dark Lord casually performed a surface scan of the teenager's thoughts. His occlumency shields were good enough to keep out memories, at least from a moderately powerful Legilimens anyways; though Voldemort could clearly detect the boy's emotions. Fear, nervousness, anticipation, a genuine desire to please. . . . .

Perfect.

"You have served me well, young Theodore," Voldemort hissed softly. "I have partaken of your family's most. . . . _generous_ hospitality for many days; and I have greatly enjoyed it."

"W-we live to serve you, my Lord," the boy squeaked.

"You do indeed." Voldemort smiled softly. "But _you_ in particular have impressed me greatly, Theodore. You have proved yourself useful, you have proved yourself reliable and as such, have earned a boon from your master."

"B-b-boon, my Lord?" The boy looked positively terrified now.

"Now now my dear Theodore, there is nothing to fear." He laid one hand on the young wizard's shoulder and was gratified to see that he didn't flinch. "Now get rid of this filth for me."

The boy nodded and shakily pointed his wand at the twitching muggle. " _Avada Kedavra_."

The room lit up with green light briefly, but before it could completely dissipate Voldemort pulled out his wand and gave it a tiny flick. A small wisp of green light sprang forth from the dead body and travelled to the tip of his wand.

"Hold out your arm," the Dark Lord ordered.

Theodore's eyes widened in surprise before he fumbled with the sleeve of his left hand. He then bared his forearm and prostrated himself at Voldemort's feet.

 _Looks like old Cantankerous has groomed his son well. . . ._

"Prepare yourself," Voldemort said quietly before pressing the tip of his wand into the boy's hand. He muttered a stream of incantations under his breath, noting with appreciation that the boy made not a single sound despite the pain.

A minute later, he withdrew his wand. There, on the young man's forearm, was a blazing tattoo of a skull with a serpent for a tongue. . . . the Dark Mark, the universal sign of servitude to the Dark Lord Voldemort.

"Master, thank you. . . . . thank you so much, Master," Theodore gasped, bending down to kiss the hem of his robes.

"May your loyalty never waver, Theodore Nott," Voldemort hissed.

"No, Master. . . . never, Master."

"Now, I have a special mission for you. . . . should you choose to accept it." Voldemort folded his arms behind him and regarded the boy imperiously.

"Anything, my Lord!"

Voldemort smiled softly. This was why he liked marking his followers so young. "You are to act as my eyes and ears within Hogwarts. You are to carefully observe Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter and report their activities to me. I expect a detailed report every three weeks."

He reached into his robes and pulled out a sealed black envelope. "You are to pass this letter to Severus Snape, though he must not know it came from you. Be as discreet as you can. Is that clear?"

"Yes Master," Theodore took the proffered letter and bowed low. "As you command, my Lord."

"Excellent," Voldemort hissed. "In the meantime, I shall be travelling to the continent to gather our forces and raise our Dark Army." He picked up a small, hand-held mirror lying on the desk behind him. "This is an enchanted, two-way mirror: use it to contact me _only_ in case of an emergency. You can activate it by tapping it thrice with your wand and saying the words ' _Magic is Might_ '."

The young wizard reverently took the mirror and bowed low.

"Excellent." Voldemort stepped forward and smiled down at the young man, hands on his shoulders. "You have impressed me greatly, young Theodore. When I return to Britain with our army, you shall have the honor of standing at my side as we lay waste to this nation of fools and incompetents."

"At. . . .at _your_ side, my Lord?" the boy seemed unable to believe his ears.

"Of course. You are the first of my followers to have taken up the Mark since my return. Who else but you shall have the honor?" The Dark Lord smiled fondly at the teenager. "Serve me well, young Theodore. Continue to impress me with your loyalty and I promise you, when we destroy the mudbloods and muggle-lovers it will be _you_ standing at my right hand as we lead Magical Britain into a new era. We shall establish a new order. . . . one where only the worthy will rule, and the weak will obey."

The boy stood proudly under Voldemort's gaze. He then bowed low and kissed the hem of his robes again. "Of course, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord."

"I shall take my leave, then," Voldemort declared. "Give your father my regards, and instruct your mother to feed Nagini regularly. I shall be most. . . _displeased_ should any harm befall her."

The boy gulped silently. "Yes, my Lord. As you command, my Lord."

 _Yes_ , Voldemort thought as he walked away from the manor, pulling his hood over his head. This was the perfect strategy. He had been granted a reprieve by Fate and the Ministry's idiocy; he was going to exploit it to the fullest.

He would travel the length and breadth of the continent, he would recruit Dark Wizards and Dark Creatures by the hundreds and raise an army that _all_ shall fear.

Then he would return and lay siege to this country of sheep, he would free his most loyal servants from Azkaban; he would take apart Dumbledore and Potter piece by piece, their friends and family paying in blood for their defiance of his power, for daring to stand in _his_ way. . . .

The Dark Lord reached the edge of the wards and cast one last look around the countryside.

With a promise of war and death in his crimson eyes, Lord Voldemort disapparated.

* * *

 **AN: So folks, what d'you think? Was the fight worth the wait? Lets see those reviews :)  
**

 **Cookies to all those who managed to guess the Time-Turner part. I also got quite a few surprising ideas from my readers. You rock guys :)**

 **As you can see I changed the title of the story. It's a shout-out to how _both_ Voldemort and Harry's plans fail in the graveyard. Both of them are intelligent and powerful. . . but their overconfidence caused the fight to end in a draw.**

 **I've always found the near-irrational fear of Voldemort in canon to be rather strange. Sure we keep hearing about how he was " _the most dangerous Dark wizard of all-time"_ but we never really find out _why_. What is it about Voldemort that made him more evil than say. . . Grindelwald? What's the reason for his unique appearance? Barring the whole thing withe Taboo, nothing much is ever explained about his powers.  
**

 **Canon!Voldemort isn't even that powerful. We keep hearing in POA and GOF that the Dark Lord will rise " _greater and more terrible than ever before_ ", implying that he got a power boost by using Harry's blood in the ritual. Yet, he still loses spectacularly to Dumbledore in OOTP. Seriously, the movie fight is much better than the book in this regard. . . . at least it shows Dumbledore struggling to beat him.  
**

 **Hence, I've decided to take a few liberties with his power. A magically powerful opponent with inhuman levels of regeneration would be extremely terrifying, even for wizards. Might seem a bit cliche, but you gotta admit it explains his weird appearance.**

 **Voldemort is _not_ going to go down easily in this story. Even with all the damage Harry and his allies have been inflicting so far,the greatest Dark lord in the world will not go down without a fight. Stay tuned.  
**


	17. Green and Silver

Daphne Greengrass had no patience for heroes.

Or heroics in general.

But it wasn't because of the heroes themselves (though they could be as annoying as hell); no, Daphne hated heroes for what they _represented_.

Idealism, near-fanatical loyalty, a constant shield for the gullible sheep to hide behind. . . .

Oh yes, Daphne Greengrass despised such things with a passion!

Even as a child she had always been a realist to the core: her only reaction to all those fantastical Harry Potter fairy tales being a single raised eyebrow. She had never been one to romanticize things unnecessarily or look at life through rose-tinted glasses. Daphne only saw things for what they were, full stop. No embellishments, no hidden deep meanings, no signs of fate. . . just the cold, hard truth and nothing else.

Perhaps it was this preference for the unvarnished truth or her excellent poker face (which she employed to great effect), but Daphne had already earned the nickname of 'The Ice Princess' even before her tenth birthday.

This _supposedly_ derogatory nickname never really bothered her much. After all, it was her opinion that the cold was much more preferable to the false warmth often seen in pureblood social circles.

"Oh, he's got such beautiful eyes!"

Daphne resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Tracey's crush on the Boy-Who-Lived had never particularly been a secret, but her best friend's incessant sighing was beginning to get on her nerves. Daphne shuddered to think how much worse it would get once they hit puberty.

Then again she shouldn't be surprised, given the manner in which they'd first made Harry Potter's acquaintance few months ago.

 _Daphne raised her wand while simultaneously pushing Tracey behind her._

 _She knew it would come to this sooner or later._

 _The Den of Snakes was a harsh place. Daphne had been warned by her father that her first few months in school would be full of posturing and power-plays, with the children of various influential families doing their best to assert themselves as the main players of their year group. While it might seem childish and borderline ridiculous to someone on the outside, Daphne was smart enough to recognize the potential strategic value of making these power-plays early in the first year itself. After all, whoever established themselves now would practically rule Slytherin house by the time they got to their Sixth-year._

 _So Daphne wasn't really worried, not for herself anyways. The one person whom she **was** worried for was Tracey._

 _Tracey Davis was Daphne's closest friend. She was also a halfblood hailing from a minor pureblood house, which put her rather low on their society's pecking order._

 _Tracey's father had gone against his own father's wishes to marry his muggleborn girlfriend, and subsequently ended up being disowned by his family, though he was permitted to retain his family name. The death of his wife in childbirth was the final straw, however, and pushed the unfortunate man towards drink and severe financial problems._

 _Fortunately for his daughter, Daphne's father, Lord Daniel Greengrass, had been a good friend of both her parents and the little girl was raised alongside his own two daughters. Andrea Greengrass loved Tracey as much as her daughters; and if Daphne had to be honest, she herself thought of Tracey as her little sister more than even her own flesh and blood Astoria._

 _Hence, Daphne had no problems with playing political games in the House of Snakes. But she drew the line when Tracey got involved._

" _Let us pass, Higgs," she said quietly._

" _Come now, Greengrass," the Seventh-year Slytherin leered at her. "No need to be like that. We just want to have a small. . . ah, chat with your friend here. She'll be in time for class, I promise you."_

 _His two friends smirked beside him, cracking their knuckles menacingly._

 _Tracey whimpered slightly. Daphne only pushed her back further, narrowing her eyes threateningly. "I'll tell Professor Snape," she warned._

" _Oh, go right ahead then. We've got nothing to worry about, right boys?" His two sidekicks sniggered stupidly. "We'll just tell the good Professor that we were simply watching out for the ickle firsties, that's all." Higgs then bent low towards Daphne. "Oh and I should warn you Greengrass, the Snake pit isn't very tolerant of squealers."_

 _Daphne grimaced inwardly. The bastard was right. Slytherins were notoriously tight-lipped about their inner conflicts, and running to her Head of House barely a few weeks into the year would forever be a black-mark against her in her peers' eyes._

 _She quickly considered her options. Higgs was close enough for her to knee him in the groin. She'd then be able to curse the second one on the right and assuming the one on the left was as slow as he looked, there'd be enough time for Tracey to get to safety before Daphne was overwhelmed. Hopefully she'd be out of the Hospital Wing before October. . ._

 _Daphne was about to grit her teeth and lunge forwards before three jets of red light shot out from the end of the corridor in quick succession. She blinked in shock as the three boys hit the ground with a heavy thud._

" _Are you two okay?"_

 _Daphne blinked in shock as Harry Potter strolled towards them, wand casually hanging at his side._

" _Potter! What the hell are you doing here?"_

" _I was just taking a walk," he shrugged, looking down at his handiwork._

" _Th-thank you. . ." Tracey squeaked, stepping out from behind her friend._

" _Don't mention it," he grinned at her. "Tracey, right?"_

" _Er. . . . yeah. I'm Tracey, Tracey Davis," she blushed furiously as she shook the Boy-Who-Lived's hand._

" _Nice to meet you. And you're Daphne, right?"_

 _The Greengrass heiress frowned at the boy. "Yes."_

" _Great. Well, if you guys like I could escort you to your common room."_

" _We'll manage, thanks," Daphne said curtly, cutting off her friend before she'd say anything embarrassing. She had no desire to be indebted to Harry Potter any more than she already was._

" _All right," the Boy-Who-Lived seemed completely unfazed by her rudeness. "I'll see you two in class, then."_

" _Bye," Tracey said shyly as he walked away._

" _See ya," he smiled._

" _Potter, wait." Daphne fixed the Boy-Who-Lived with a suspicious glare. She still couldn't believe this was a simple coincidence, with a part of her wondering if the whole thing had been some kind of a set-up. "Why'd you help just now? You don't even know us."_

 _The emerald-eyed boy merely smiled at her cheerfully. "No, I don't. But I'd like to."_

That had been a good six months ago.

Now, even with the first-year slowly coming to an end, Daphne was loath to admit that she still had no idea of Harry Potter's motivations.

Honestly, the boy was an enigma wrapped in a puzzle hidden inside a bloody conundrum!

But then again, when had anything been simple where _he_ was concerned?

When news of Harry Potter being spotted in Diagon Alley had surfaced, every single pureblood home in Britain had gone into a tizzy. Like the rest of her peers, Daphne had received strict instructions from her father to closely observe the Boy-Who-Lived and report anything of significance. She had, of course, anticipated the assignment and if she had to be entirely honest with herself, even looked forward to it. She really was very curious to see what kind of a person the vanquisher of the Dark Lord would turn out to be.

She'd expected a typical Gryffindor, reckless and foolish; she'd expected a Light-version of Draco Malfoy, prattling on about his fame and picking fights with the ' _slimy snakes_ ' of the school; she'd expected a naïve, self-righteous, Dumbledore-worshipping doorknob. . .

She had never expected to be faced with. . . well, _this_.

Harry Potter was no typical Gryffindor. In fact, Daphne was pretty sure he was the only student in the school who could not be closely defined by the qualities of any of the four houses. There was just something very. . . _different_ about him.

Potter remembered your name. It didn't matter if you were the son of a Ministry big-wig or some lowly muggleborn, Harry Potter always remembered your name. He also had an incredible ability to recall even the seemingly insignificant details about the people he knew, possibly even without making a note of it somewhere. When you spoke to him, he didn't just hear you out. . . he _listened_.

At first, Daphne had assumed that the Boy-Who-Lived was more of a Slytherin than anyone suspected; his ability to quickly befriend children of important families like the Longbottom heir and the Bones' heiress, and the frequent overtures he made to both her and Tracey certainly hinted at a more cunning mind. But then he'd gone and befriended Hermione Granger, the know-it-all muggleborn.

This unexpected action threw Daphne for a loop. While getting along with the Weasleys she could understand (they were notoriously pro-Light), but going out of his way to save the life of some chit of a girl he barely knew seemed completely out of character for someone so politically motivated. A _real_ Slytherin would never have risked their necks so openly, certainly not for some random muggleborn anyway.

In the end, Daphne had deduced that the whole thing must have been a ruse to get Dumbledore's approval or something, since the barmy old man was the only person in the castle to be impressed by such a display of recklessness. There was also the fact that the Hat had placed the Boy-Who-Lived in Gryffindor, which it wouldn't have done if there wasn't _some_ amount of foolish bravery inside his skull. Then again, anyone stupid enough to play as Seeker in their first year would have to be a few marbles short of a game of Gobstones.

"I still say we should consider taking him up on his offer," Tracey said, derailing her train of thought.

"What?"

"His study group," Tracey said impatiently. "You know, the one which he invited us to a few months ago? We should try joining him sometime."

"No thanks," Daphne muttered.

"Why not?" Her friend whined.

"Because we both know it'll be a complete waste of time." Daphne rolled her eyes. "You'll be too busy mooning him to do any actual work, and I'll be too distracted by your sighing to be able to concentrate on anything."

Tracey blushed slightly. She was about to snap something back, when the boy on Daphne's left spoke. "It's not that bad, y'know."

Daphne blinked in shock and turned around to regard him incredulously. "You actually _attended_ one of those things?"

Blaise Zabini simply shrugged. "Twice."

Daphne struggled to digest this startling news. Blaise Zabini (son of the infamous Adriana ' _Black Widow_ ' Zabini) was the most reclusive person she'd ever known. The boy was notoriously tight-lipped about everything, and having grown up together (they were cousins) Daphne could honestly swear that she'd never seen him take the initiative in dealing with anybody. He even stayed away from his fellow Slytherins, which given his mother's reputation, most of the students were rather grateful for.

"How are _you_ on good terms with Potter, anyways? You barely speak to each other in class," Daphne said suspiciously.

"That's because Malfoy rarely lets anyone get in a word in edgeways." Blaise shrugged again. "As for our talking to one another, we run into each other a lot in the owlery."

"Oh?" Tracey was surprised. "He sends out a lot of owls? I thought his relatives were muggles."

Daphne nodded approvingly. While Tracey would never be cunning enough to be a true Slytherin, she certainly did not lack in intelligence or ambition (she dreamed of owning her own Quidditch team one day). Either way, she did just point out something important.

"I never said he does. He just comes to the owlery and sits on the ledge. Sometimes, he talks to his owl."

"He talks to his _owl_?" Daphne was alarmed.

 _I knew it! The boy's nuts. He's nuttier than a. . . ._

"Walked in on him in mid-conversation a couple of times," Blaise said with a small smirk. "And get this: the owl actually seems to _understand_ everything he says."

"You're joking!" Daphne was convinced he was simply having her on.

"I'm not. It nods at all the right places and everything. It's really something else."

"I know what you mean," Tracey said quietly. "A lot of people say that snowy-owl's pretty smart. And you know, rumor also has it. . . ."

"Enough about the bloody bird already!" Daphne filed this information away for later. Tracey might be a little naïve sometimes, but if Blaise was saying it then it must be true. The boy simply did not have an ounce of fanciful imagination in his head. "So that's how you two met?" she prompted him.

"Well, yeah," Blaise nodded. "We chatted a couple of times and then he invited me to join him with his study group."

Daphne's eyebrows shot up slightly. The Boy-Who-Lived invited _Blaise Zabini_ to study together? What was he playing at?

A lot of people in the castle, students and teachers alike, avoided Blaise on sheer principle. This was mostly because of his mother, who hailed from a clan of well-known Italian Dark Magic practitioners. Adriana had been married seven times, each of her husbands dying under mysterious circumstances and leaving behind their entire estates to her: hence the unflattering moniker of 'Black Widow'.

Of course, to the sheep of the Wizarding world it did not matter what kind of people those seven men had been. It did not matter that all seven of them had been the patriarchs of Dark families themselves: five of whom had been amongst the Dark Lord Grindelwald's chief financiers and the remaining two had also been suspected of secretly supplying gold to You-Know-Who's armies, though of course nothing had been proved. It also did not matter that a large amount of their gold had been anonymously donated to various charities shortly after their deaths.

Then again, since when did the British Wizarding community let something as insignificant as _facts_ get in the way of their opinions?

Daphne herself had no idea what kind of a grudge her aunt carried against Dark wizards, and she honestly couldn't care. As far as she was concerned there were seven less blood-purist wankers running around the place, and that was more than enough.

She was, however, concerned about the kind of effect it had on her cousin Blaise. While Daphne could honestly say that his mother did love him, the absence of a father figure in the boy's life hadn't done him any favors. Blaise had never been particularly expressive as a child, and even now constantly wore a carefully blank expression on his handsome face. Daphne hoped that the prospect of spending seven years with people of his own age might go a little way to making him open up to the people around him, if only a little.

Unfortunately, most people in the school weren't as understanding of his circumstances as she and Tracey were. The few who did want to interact with him had their own twisted agendas, something Daphne was keen to keep him away from.

Naturally, she'd been surprised to hear that the Boy-Who-Lived had sought out Blaise on his own.

To his credit, the boy quickly caught her unspoken implication. "I know. I was a little suspicious at first myself, but then he said that it was just a few friends getting together to help each other out with homework. So I thought: what the heck? Why not give it a shot?"

"What's it like?" Tracey asked eagerly.

"Not bad. There's a quiet spot in the library that we work in. Everybody does their own stuff, though we do ask each other for help sometimes: Longbottom helps out with Herbology, Potter with Transfiguration and DADA, Granger's good enough with Charms and Turpin pitches in for Potions and Padma Patil for History. I help out with Astronomy when I can."

"Turpin?" Daphne asked in surprise. " _Lisa Turpin_ studies with you?"

"Yeah. Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein also drop in from time to time, though they're mostly busy arguing Quidditch with Weasley."

Daphne was impressed in spite of herself. Lisa Turpin was a Ravenclaw, and one of the smartest students in the school. A halfblood by birth, her skill with Potions was practically legendary, so much so that there were rumors that Snape was seriously considering taking her on as an apprentice. Her intelligence and skill with a wand was in a league of its own, and she was the only student currently giving Potter stiff competition for the top scores of their year.

Naturally, such prodigious talent had brought her to the attention of every single self-respecting Slytherin in the school. But her infamous temper prevented most people from approaching her, lest they find themselves on the receiving end of her wrath. One only had to look at Argus Filch to understand what crossing Lisa Turpin could do to you. Last Daphne had heard, the caretaker was still flinching violently anytime a Ravenclaw got too close to him in the corridors.

And to think that Potter had actually managed to befriend _her_ , of all people! Daphne found herself revising her opinion of the Boy-Who-Lived for the umpteenth time that day.

"What's he like in the study group?" Tracey flushed slightly. "Harry Potter, I mean."

"He's. . . well, he's not what I expected, I'll give him that," Blaise said with a slightly puzzled look.

"Meaning?" Daphne prompted.

"Well. . . . when he first told me about the group, I thought it'd be something like how the other Slytherins do it, y'know. I thought it'd be more about socializing than actual studying. . . one reason why I was so unsure about it all."

"And?"

"And it's. . . . it's _different_. I mean sure, Potter's nice and all but I've never seen him show any special attention to anyone when he's at the study group. He goes out of his way to treat everyone equally while we're working, even his friends. He'll treat everyone the same no matter what topic comes up for discussion."

"But you can go to him in your free time, and he'll help you out. It doesn't matter what: personal disagreements, issues in the group, even problems back home. He'll work with you, for you, just to make everything go better, even when there's nothing in it for him." He shrugged. "It's just the way he is, I guess."

Daphne frowned thoughtfully and looked at the Gryffindor table once again, as an excited Tracey bombarded the boy with questions.

She didn't know it then, but someday that simple study group would go on to change their world as they knew it.

* * *

In a world of red and green morality, Harry Potter was a shade of grey.

 _A rather **dark** shade of grey._

Daphne shook her head slightly as they walked past a group of gossiping fourth-years. The news was all over the castle by now.

The previous morning Potter had had a confrontation with Graham Montague, Chaser for the Slytherin Quiddditch team. While accounts varied as to what _exactly_ Montague had said, all that Daphne knew was that the Boy-Who-Lived had not taken kindly to it.

No one knew what precisely happened after that. What they _did_ know was that Montague was currently in the Hospital Wing having all the bones in his right hand regrown, and was stubbornly refusing to say who'd attacked him. Snape had even tried punishing Potter directly, but with no one coming forward to support his accusations (despite there being a corridor-full of witnesses), all his efforts were in vain.

Daphne honestly hadn't been surprised. Potter had become a very different person since Granger and Lovegood became the Heir's latest victims. He'd cancelled all of his study sessions and sequestered himself in the Library, accompanied only by Weasley and Longbottom.

Then there were the silly rumors going around, about Potter being capable of wandless magic which he used to shatter Montague's hand.

She scoffed slightly. _Wandless magic!?_ Really? Even You-Know-Who was capable of only a little wandless magic at the height of his powers, and people thought _Potter_ could do it?

 _Then again, he did beat the Dark Lord as a baby. Who knows what he's really capable of. . ._

"Daphne. Hey Daphne!"

She started slightly. "Yes. What is it?"

"I was just saying," Tracey took a deep breath. "I think. . . I think we should tell Harry about Tom's diary."

Daphne fought the urge to glower at her friend. Of all the stupid things she could've done. . . !

A month ago, Tracey had come across a diary of some sort in the girls' bathroom; a diary that apparently contained the memories of a Hogwarts ex-student named Tom Riddle. Tracey had spent two whole days writing in the diary, during which the. . . whatever it was showed her a memory of the gamekeeper Hagrid being arrested for letting Slytherin's monster loose fifty years ago. Tracey had wanted to show this to her friend, but before she could do so _someone_ had ransacked her bag when she left it outside during a bathroom visit, and made off with the item.

Daphne was incensed by Tracey's gullibility when she finally got the entire truth out of her. How could a girl brought up in a Wizarding household, _her_ household, be stupid enough to meddle with a magical object like that? The bloody thing could have been _cursed_ for all she knew, and Tracey had gone and tried to become best buddies with it!

Then there was the extremely fishy story of Tom Riddle. Tracey admitted it herself later that the very idea of Hagrid being Slytherin's Heir was ludicrous. He was a half-giant for Merlin's sake, and while he might be one the kindest people they knew, he _definitely_ wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed. How could he possibly have discovered Salazar Slytherin's secret Chamber that historians and researchers spent _decades_ searching for!? And even if he had, would he really be able to let an ancient monster loose in a castle without any of the teachers noticing anything? As if!

Daphne and Tracey later conducted their own investigations about this Tom Riddle character. They found out he was part of the 1936 batch, a Slytherin prefect and later Head boy. And while there was nothing suspicious about him on the surface, she couldn't help but feel a slight sense of foreboding at the name.

Tracey had wanted to write to Daphne's father about this, but her friend immediately shot the idea down. Daphne knew her father was no fool, he would ask questions that would lead to uncomfortable answers, and she had no desire to let Tracey suffer his wrath. Daniel Greengrass was a disciplinarian, and would never let Tracey get away with doing something as dangerous as trusting unknown magical objects, good intentions notwithstanding.

In the end, the girls had decided to keep quiet about the whole affair. With Dumbledore out of the castle there was no one out there who would take them seriously; and coming forward with such information so late might end up incriminating them as possible suspects. As it was the atmosphere in the castle was heavily anti-Slytherin, and Daphne had no desire to put them both in the eye of the storm.

But then Lovegood and Granger were attacked, and Daphne knew that they couldn't remain silent any longer. The Heir had seemingly grown bolder, and if this kept up the entire school might end up getting closed down.

"What makes you think Potter's going to believe a word we say?" Daphne said quietly.

Tracey sighed. "Daph, it doesn't matter if he believes us or not. There's no one else in the school we can turn to. The Gryffindors are ready to lynch anyone who even _looks_ at them wrong, and Snape's too busy helping McGonagall run the school. Harry's our only hope: even if he doesn't believe us, we can trust him to take the information to the right people without bringing our names in. _Please_ Daphne!"

Daphne was actually impressed. That was a very Slytherin argument coming from her friend, and she had to admit that Tracey's logic was spot on. The information they were holding onto might just be the key to solving the mystery, and Harry Potter was the only person they could trust it with, for now.

Not to mention that Tracey's puppy dog expression still got to her even after all these years.

 _Damn this girl. . ._

"Fine," Daphne sighed. "Let's go find the boy-wonder."

Locating the Gryffindor trio in the library was easy enough. Longbottom and Weasley regarded them warily as they approached, while Potter didn't even look up from his book.

"Daphne, Tracey. . . . something I can do for you both?"

"We've got something you might want to hear," Daphne said stiffly.

"I'm a little busy. . ."

"It's about Slytherin's Heir," Tracey blurted out.

"What?" Weasley yelped. "You _know_ who the Heir is?"

"What? N-no, not like that. . . w-we just have some information. . ."

Daphne scowled at the two of them and pulled out her wand. Ignoring Weasley and Longbottom's slight flinch, she put up a small privacy ward, one her father had taught her.

"Impressive," Potter nodded at her. "Now, Tracey.. . . you were saying?"

Tracey took a deep breath and told her tale. Daphne watched as Potter listened with an impassive expression on his face, his body language giving away none of his thoughts.

At the mention of Tom Riddle though, his eyes flashed. "Tom Riddle!? Are you _sure_ the name was Tom Riddle?" he asked sharply.

"Well, yeah," Tracey said. "The name on the dairy was 'T.M. Riddle', and he introduced himself as Tom."

"Of course," Potter breathed. After a moment, he said, "Describe this diary for me, please. As much detail as you can."

"Um . . . it was an old diary, like really old," Tracey scrunched up her face in thought. "It had a slightly shabby black cover, and it was pretty thin. The first page had the name ' _T.M. Riddle'_ on it, slightly smudged. Oh, and on the back was the address of some store. What was that. . . Maxwell road? No, no. . . Vau. . . _Vauxhall Road_! That's right, Vauxhall Road in London!"

She looked eagerly at Potter's face and shrank back slightly, not that Daphne blamed her. The Boy-Who-Lived's expression was practically murderous now. He then shook his head violently and then started stuffing books into nearby shelves, cursing under his breath.

"Thank you for telling me this, Tracey." He stopped to shoot the girl a small smile. "You've helped me more than you know."

"She has?" Longbottom asked dumbly.

"She has," Potter agreed. "That was exactly the clue I was looking for."

"Mind sharing with us, Potter?" Daphne drawled.

"Not yet, no." He turned to the two boys. "Can you two escort Daphne and Tracey back to the Slytherin common room?"

"We can manage, Potter so. . . "

"I insist, Daphne." There was a firmness in his voice that left no room for argument. The Boy-Who-Lived then turned back to the two Gryffindors. "Take them all the way to the entrance, and then find some Prefect to escort you both back to _our_ common room."

"Harry, mate. . ."

"Oh please," Daphne scoffed. "As if any Slytherin in their right minds would come within fifty feet of your common room right now, Prefect or not!"

Potter frowned slightly. "Tell them that I'll _personally_ owe them a favor if they agree to escort Neville and Ron all the way to the portrait hole."

Daphne stared at him in shock. Most Slytherins would give their right arms to be owed a favor by the Boy-Who-Lived himself, house rivalry be damned!

"Mate," Longbottom said. "We can manage. . ."

" _Not_ the time, Neville. Just make sure you get back to the dorms in one piece, and be very, very careful. Understood?"

At their acquiescing nod, he got up and walked away.

"But. . . but where are you going, Harry?" Tracey asked.

The Boy-Who-Lived didn't even bother to look back, but his voice rang with conviction. "To finish this."

* * *

The next twenty-four hours were a complete blur.

From what Daphne could piece together from the rumors, shortly after Potter had set out to deal with the Heir, Ginny Weasley had been kidnapped and taken into the mythical Chamber of Secrets itself. The entire school had been put into lockdown after that, with Snape coming to the Snake pit and telling them to pack their bags since it was very likely that the school was going to close shortly. He also confirmed, albeit reluctantly, that Dumbledore had been sent for to aid in the search for the missing girl. There was no news about Harry Potter.

The whole thing smelt funny to Daphne. Why would the Heir kidnap a _pureblood_ girl when Slytherin's monster was supposed to be attacking _muggleborns_? It just didn't make sense. But she was too busy consoling Tracey, who had convinced herself that the Boy-Who-Lived was dead and it was all her fault.

Then shortly before dawn (no one had slept due to all the excitement) Snape came by to deliver a most surprising news. Ginny Weasley had been rescued, thanks to Potter (Snape looked like he had an ulcer when he admitted that part), and Slytherin's monster was dead. The Heir had also been identified and, in Snape's words, was being dealt with by the DMLE.

It was all over.

Dumbledore then sent for the students to assemble in the Great Hall, where he announced that the Chamber of Secrets incident had been resolved thanks to the efforts of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, both of whom received House Points (trust that old bugger to rig the House Cup once again) and awards for services to the school. Ginny Weasley had apparently been sent to St Mungo's to recover from her ordeal, which explained the noticeable absence of red hair from the Gryffindor table.

For her part, Daphne was simply glad that the whole matter was resolved without any undue attention being brought to her and Tracey. She had a sneaking suspicion that Potter had convinced Dumbledore to keep their role a secret. She even managed to applaud politely when it was announced that Dumbledore had been reappointed as Headmaster of the school. The look of consternation on Draco Malfoy's face made her food taste all the better.

Still, there was one thing to take care of.

Daphne stood up and made her way to the Gryffindor table, where half the school was currently crammed. Blaise and Tracey followed quietly.

"So," she drawled at the Boy-Who-Lived. "Rumor has it that _you_ killed Slytherin's monster, all by yourself. A basilisk, apparently slain using Gryffindor's legendary sword?" She raised her eyebrows at him at the apparent ludicrousness of the tale.

"Meh," Potter said around a mouthful of Treacle Tart. "No big deal, really."

Daphne stared at the boy in utter disbelief. " _Excuse me_? You just killed a _basilisk_ with a _sword_ , and you're saying it's ' _no big deal'_!?"

"It was just a big snake," he protested. "Well, okay a bloody big snake, but ultimately just a dumb snake." He shrugged his shoulders and pushed a bowl of dessert at her. "Treacle Tart?"

Daphne closed her eyes and took a deep breath, resisting the urge to punch the Boy-Who-Lived in the face. Maybe he was still recovering from shock, she reasoned. Or maybe Dumbledore was rubbing off on the boy, in which case he _really_ needed to see a Mind-Healer.

Then something that Blaise had said before clicked.

 _It's just the way he is, I guess._

Daphne opened her eyes and for the first time looked, really looked at the Boy-Who-Lived's friends.

She saw Granger loudly bemoaning the cancellation of exams (she was summarily ignored), she saw Longbottom enthusiastically discussing new additions to his greenhouses with Blaise, she saw Lovegood dreamily talking about her various creatures to the school gossip-mongers (who were hanging onto her every word), she saw Tracey chattering excitedly with a bemused looking Turpin about her Potions apprenticeship. . .

And she suddenly understood.

This was what Blaise was talking about. _This_ was the kind of person Harry Potter _really_ was.

Politics didn't matter, family didn't matter, blood didn't matter, money didn't matter. . . . .

To Harry Potter, the only thing that mattered was the _individual_ before him. He saw the person, not what they represented. Strength and character he respected, and everything else he disregarded as of no consequence.

He saw people for what they were, not what others wished them to be. He accepted them for what they were really like and pushed them to be the best they could.

In some ways he was just like her. No, he was _better_ than her.

Suddenly the reason so many respected the Boy-Who-Lived became incredibly clear.

Daphne once again looked at the emerald-eyed boy, happily gobbling down his dessert.

 _Bloody big snake, indeed. . ._

"Oi, Potter!"

"What?"

She smiled genuinely at him for the first time. "About this little study group of yours. . ."

* * *

"Excuse me?"

Daphne looked up from her book to regard the speaker with no small amount of surprise.

"Yes?"

"Could I haff a vord?"

"Of course." Daphne schooled her face into a neutral mask and looked into the hawk-like eyes of Viktor Krum, the Durmstrang Champion.

"Vould you. . . vould you like to go the Ball vith me?"

Daphne resisted the urge to gape in shock. Viktor Krum, the International Quidditch celebrity and Tournament champion, was asking _her_ on a date!?

Thankfully, her sharp mind kicked in before she could make a fool of herself.

Daphne cast a appraising glance at the boy. . . _man_ , she corrected herself. While it was true that he was a little old for her (he was eighteen), she herself was a couple months away from her fifteenth birthday. He wasn't especially great to look at but had a strong personality, and was pretty powerful magically. Not to mention her Slytherin instincts found the prospect of socializing with an International-level celebrity quite appealing.

"Yes, I would."

Krum seemed to perk up slightly. "Thank you. I guess. . . I vill see you later then." He nodded and walked away.

"Wait a minute!"

Daphne mentally kicked herself for her impulsiveness. She must be spending too much time with bloody Gryffindors if she was beginning to speak without thinking!

But Krum had already turned around. Nothing to do but go for it.

"Why me?" Daphne asked.

"Sorry?" the boy seemed confused.

"I meant," she took a deep breath. "We've never spoken to each other before today. And you're a famous Quidditch star: girls would fall over themselves to go with you. So why ask me?"

She waited for his answer, feeling a bit excited for some reason. She suspected that it was because of her looks (she _was_ one of the prettiest girls in the school, after all), she suspected that it was because of her status as a pureblood heiress, she suspected that he simply wanted to get some inside information on Harry Potter (it was no secret that she was part of his 'inner circle', as people liked to put it). . . . .

"They say. . . you do not like Quidditch."

"What!?"

 _This_ she had not suspected.

"People. . . vhen they are around me, they vant to talk only about Quidditch." He shrugged. "Always Quidditch, all the time. . . . it, how do you say, gets on my nerves." Krum grinned at her suddenly. "Your classmates say you do not like Quidditch. That is correct, no?"

"Well, yes that's true. . . I guess." Daphne felt rather uncomfortable. It was no secret that she disliked Quidditch. She simply wasn't a sports fan, and the entire idea of playing hundreds of feet in the air balanced only on a thin piece of wood was just _asking_ for trouble, in her opinion.

Krum smiled at her, and Daphne felt herself go slightly red when she realized that he actually looked good when he smiled. "That is good, then. I can enjoy the party without talking about Quidditch, for once."

Daphne was struck by the Champion's honesty, and felt herself smiling back in return. "I'll see you later then."

He gave her a short bow and left, still smiling. Daphne watched the Durmstrang Champion leave with a soft smile on her own face. Perhaps there was more to him than met the eye.

Lost in thought, she turned around to find herself practically nose-to-nose with a smirking Tracey Davis.

"Soooooo. . . . Viktor Krum, huh?"

Daphne groaned loudly. _Merlin, help me. . ._

* * *

Daphne Greengrass tapped her foot impatiently on the floor as the Boy-Who-Lived exited the infirmary.

"Potter. We need to talk."

"Good to see you too, Daphne! I'm absolutely _fine_ , thank you so much for asking."

"Keep a lid on it, Potter," she said impatiently. "You've been in there for a week! And if your girlfriend's frequent visits are any indication, you're completely back to your old self."

"How do _you_ know?" the boy challenged. "For all you knew I might've been at death's door until yesterday, and only the power of Fleur's love and the prospect of seeing my friends again brought me back from the edge."

"Or maybe it was the prospect of licking Treacle Tart off of your Veela friend's body?" Daphne sneered. "Never took you for the French wine and cheese kind, Potter."

"Never took you for the kind to enjoy Bulgarian beef sandwiches, Greengrass," Potter leered at her. "Did Krum let you ride his broomstick yet?"

Daphne turned her nose up in the air and chose to respond to this incredibly juvenile taunt in a mature fashion. . .

. . . . by kicking him in the shins.

Daphne savored the satisfaction of watching the youngest Triwizard Champion hop on one leg moaning in pain, before she dragged him into a nearby classroom. After throwing her strongest privacy wards all over the place, she turned to the Boy-Who-Lived and raised an eyebrow.

"Well, what's all this about you fighting the Dark Lord?"

"It was just a Dark Lord," he shrugged. "A bloody _ugly_ Dark Lord, but. . ."

Daphne grit her teeth and resisted the urge to hex him back into the Hospital Wing.

"Okay, okay. . . no need to get upset." Harry Potter's mocking grin vanished and his expression became serious. "How much do you know?"

Daphne sighed. "Dumbledore made an announcement a few days ago. He said he wanted to clarify some things about what really happened at the Third Task. He said," she licked her lips, "he said that the Dark Lord kidnapped you from the maze. He said that. . . that You-Know-Who had _returned_ and that you fought him and barely escaped." She looked at the boy, silently beseeching him to deny everything; to say that it was all a lie. "Is he really. . . ?"

"He's back, Daphne," Potter said quietly. "I know it's hard to believe, but he really is back."

Daphne felt the world spin slightly. _He_ was back? The monster who had been responsible for so much death and destruction, the worst Dark Lord the world had ever seen was back from the _dead_!?

For the first time in her life, Daphne found herself wishing with all her heart that she was wrong. She wished she could simply turn her eyes away from the harsh light of truth, and blissfully live in a world of ignorance.

But she couldn't do it; she couldn't ignore the stark reality of their situation, however harsh it may be. It went against her very nature, against everything she'd ever believed in.

The Dark Lord had returned, and _nothing_ would ever be the same again.

She started when she realized that Potter was still talking. ". . . didn't agree, but the Headmaster insisted that we get the truth out there to quell some of the more dangerous rumors going around."

Daphne nodded glumly. "The mood has been heavily anti-Durmstrang for the last week. Everyone knows their Headmaster was involved in your kidnapping, and with Viktor having cast the Cruciatus on Diggory, it's gotten so bad that the students have practically barricaded themselves on their ship."

"Did no one mention that he was under Karkaroff's Imperius?"

"Oh, he _tried_ but no one was willing to believe a word he said." Daphne scoffed and threw back her golden locks in anger. "Bloody buggering hypocrites! They'll believe it when people like Lucius Malfoy say it, but they won't believe Viktor simply because he's a _foreigner_!"

The Hogwarts students' treatment of Viktor was a sore point for her. Daphne might never have imagined it before, but she had come to care greatly for the Bulgarian. The young man had become an important person to her, like Tracey and Blaise; and Daphne was nothing if not protective about the people she cared for.

Potter nodded slowly. "Fleur mentioned something to that effect last night. If not for the fact that she saved Cedric's life, she reckons she would've ended up getting lynched after the Third Task. As it is I have to ask Susan and Hannah to escort her whenever she's in the castle."

"I know. Thankfully, Diggory's taken this whole thing much better than anyone anticipated." Daphne sighed softly. "If he hadn't stepped in for Viktor, they probably would've arrested him for casting an Unforgivable." Daphne owed Diggory more than anyone else. She recalled the downward spiral of depression that Viktor had gone into when he realized what he was forced to do. If the Hufflepuff hadn't supported him when he had. . . . she shuddered to think what could've happened.

"How's things at the Ministry?"

"Bad. Really bad." Daphne shook her head. "Father says that Fudge has gone completely round the bend. He's classified this whole fiasco under the Official Secrets Act and is absolutely refusing to even _consider_ the possibility of You-Know-Who's return. Worse, he's somehow gotten it into his head that Dumbledore's just making all this up because he wants his job, and that you're being confounded by him. . . or are simply an attention-seeking celebrity." She shot him a slightly apologetic look.

Potter merely laughed. "He thinks _I'm_ an attention-seeker? Or that I'm being _confounded_?" He chuckled softly. "Merlin, that man is off his rocker!"

"It isn't funny," she hissed at him. "Susan tells me that her aunt has been forbidden from investigating anything. Fudge even ordered to have Karkaroff released and deported to Bulgaria, without so much as questioning him! He's even gone so far as to blame the whole thing on Pettigrew of all people, claiming that he and his ' _unknown accomplices_ ' were responsible for the whole thing. And it gets worse. . . ."

"How does it get any worse than that?"

Daphne bit her lip slightly. Her father had made her swear not to divulge this, but the Boy-Who-Lived _needed_ to know. Not to mention she owed him for the whole thing in second year.

 _Oh hell! In for a knut, in for a galleon. . ._

She took a deep breath. "Father pulled a few favors. The Death Eater who put your name into the Goblet, Crouch Jr? He's dead!"

"What!?" Potter gaped at her. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am. . . or my father is anyway. From what he's found out, Fudge paid a visit to the Ministry holding cells to presumably _check_ on the prisoner. He also brought along a couple of Dementors, for ' _protection_ '." She licked her lips slightly. "Potter, the Dementors Kissed the man as soon as they saw him, probably on Fudge's orders. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

The Boy-Who-Lived nodded silently. "Summary execution. I have to admit I never thought Fudge had it in him." He almost sounded impressed. "He's really desperate, isn't he?"

"Tell me about it," Daphne said glumly. "Father says that Amelia Bones was furious when she found out, but Fudge threatened to cut her funding if she pursued the matter any further. I swear, that idiot couldn't be helping You-Know-Who any more if he actually _took_ the Mark!"

"Has he? Taken the Mark, I mean. How do we know. . ?"

"Father's got a saying he's rather fond of – ' _Never attribute to malice that which can be explained by stupidity_ '." Daphne smiled grimly. "He thinks that Fudge is simply an idiot who's gotten too used to power and comfort. He doesn't want to deal with the trouble that You-Know-Who's return would mean to the Ministry, so he's closing his eyes and hoping the problem goes away by itself."

"Of course he does," Potter muttered. "Well, I suppose I should be glad that Sirius and I had prepared a contingency plan for all this."

Daphne narrowed her eyes. "What sort of a contingency plan?"

"A plan to get rid of Fudge in case he ever becomes a liability, which he has," Potter said grimly.

"I see. And pray tell, Potter, how long have you developing these contingencies?" Daphne asked coldly.

Potter frowned at her. "What's got you upset, Daphne?"

"Oh, I don't know. . . maybe it's the fact that you've been planning this since _before_ you asked Lord Black to join the Neutral Wizengamot faction?" She practically screamed.

"What are you. . ?"

"Don't lie to me, Potter!"

"I don't lie without a good reason, Daphne," Potter said quietly. "Sirius was being honest when he said he wanted to go Neutral to stick to Dumbledore and Fudge."

"Then how did you. . ? Wait, you _knew_ ," Her eyes widened in horror. "You _knew_ he was going to come back?"

Potter bowed his head. "We've had our suspicions for the last year, yes."

"And you didn't think about sharing your ' _suspicions_ ' with my father. . . with me!? Bloody hell, Potter, I thought we were supposed to be allies!"

"We are. But unlike others, I don't believe in forcing or manipulating my allies into fighting a war they want no part of." He looked her straight in the eye. "I wanted to ask you myself before revealing any of our plans to you."

"Ask me what?" Daphne demanded.

The Boy-Who-Lived sighed and leaned against a desk. "I need your help, Daphne. I need your help in fighting this war, because I don't think I'll be able to do it on my own."

Daphne blinked in shock. In all the time she'd known him, Harry Potter had never sounded so. . . _tired_.

"What's going on, Potter? What aren't you telling me?"

"I messed up," he said bluntly. "I messed up big time. I had the chance to finish off Voldemort, and I lost it to my overconfidence. I acted like a. . . a bloody _amateur_! Heck, there was one point where I had him on the ground, completely defenseless, no wand. . . but instead of just blowing his head up I stood there and gloated like a moron." He gave a small self-deprecating laugh. "I guess it's true what they say: too much of success tends to make a man overly complacent."

Daphne shook her head slightly. "That was pretty stupid of you, Potter." Underestimating the Dark Lord in any circumstances was the height of foolishness, and something she honestly hadn't expected from _him_ of all people.

But she didn't hold it against him much. Not really. It was easy to forget sometimes that for all his intelligence and skill, Harry Potter was still a teenager.

"The point is: I'm not sure I can trust my own judgement the way I used to." The Boy-Who-Lived exhaled softly. "That night reminded me that I too can make mistakes, and this war with Voldemort is much too big. . . much too _important_ for me to screw it up due to my presumptuousness. I need to start relying on others. . . on my friends if I want to win this thing with minimum casualties."

"Why tell _me_ all this?"

"Because I trust you, Daphne." She started and blushed slightly at the honesty in his voice. "I've always respected your intelligence and your pragmatism, and I'm going to need it to beat him."

"Now, now Potter. . . flattery will get you everywhere," Daphne smirked.

For a few seconds they both grinned at each other, then Daphne sobered up. "You do realize what you're asking me, don't you? You're asking the Greengrass family to openly take your side in this war." She fixed him with a piercing glare. "My family has remained Neutral in all Wizarding conflicts since the Grindelwald war. You're asking me to throw it all away. . . for you."

It was Potter's turn to fix her with a glare now. "There is _no_ neutrality in this war, Daphne. . . not anymore. I have fought Voldemort head-on and barely escaped with my life; he's much more powerful than he was before, and much, much more tenacious. He will destroy _everything_ we hold dear if we don't stand together to oppose him." He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and exposed his chest, and Daphne fought the urge to recoil at the black jagged scar on his abdomen. " _This_ is what awaits your family and your loved ones if he decides to come after you. . . and he will, regardless of what you choose."

Daphne swallowed. "Is that. . . ?"

"Cruciatus."

"The Unforgiveables don't leave a physical mark, Potter," She reminded him.

"They do when Voldemort's the one casting them; or maybe I'm just the exception." He grimaced and closed his shirt. "Madam Pomfrey reckons I would've died instantly if that curse had hit me straight on the heart. I got very, _very_ lucky that night."

Daphne fought the bile rising in her throat and took a deep breath. She couldn't afford to be swayed by emotions right now. "You think you can win this?"

"If we fight together, I _know_ I can," the Boy-Who-Lived declared.

 _Bloody Drama Queen!_ She tried another tactic. "My father might not agree with taking your side," she warned.

"You wouldn't be talking to me right now if you couldn't convince him otherwise," Potter smirked. "You're heir-apparent to the Greengrass family, and we both know he values your opinion."

"He could always disown me and make Astoria the heir," Daphne pointed out.

"But he won't, because he loves you too much. Lord Daniel Greengrass is a family man through and through."

 _Bugger! He thinks of everything, doesn't he?_

Daphne sighed in defeat. "Fine, I'll do it. You can count on our support should you need it, Potter."

"Thanks Daphne!" The Boy-Who-Lived gave a relieved sigh and smiled warmly. "I knew I could count on you."

"Don't get all sappy on me," she warned.

Harry Potter simply smirked at her.

Daphne rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "If we're going to do this, we'll need more allies. We need as many allies as we can get."

"I'm open to suggestions."

She nibbled her bottom lip thoughtfully. "There are three things you need to fight a war: gold, soldiers and information. Between you and your godfather you have the first covered, and the DA covers your army, but for the last. . . ."

She snapped her fingers. "I got it! You need to restructure the DA!"

"How will that help me get _information_?" Potter was perplexed.

"The DA's spread out across all four Houses, right? Use that to your advantage. Form a small sub-group, with two members from each House. Officially, they'll be representing their Houses in the DA. . ."

". . . but unofficially they'll be a sounding board for ideas and information-gatherers." The Boy-Who-Lived nodded approvingly. "Nice. Suggestions?"

"I'll leave Gryfffindor house to you. Pick whomever you think is trustworthy." Daphne rubbed her chin slowly. "Get Bones and Abbott from Hufflepuff, Blaise and I from Slytherin and. . . and Turpin and Boot from Ravenclaw."

"All that just off the top of your head?" He sounded impressed.

"I'm a Slytherin, Potter; give me some credit." She waved her hand airily. "The important thing is that we have enough people to gather information from the ministry and our gossip mill."

" _School gossip_ , Daphne? Really?"

"Never underestimate the power of school gossip, Potter," Daphne said haughtily. "You'd be surprised how accurate they can be sometimes."

"All right, all right, I'm not going to argue with you," he said hastily. "That's that, then. In the meantime I'll start thinking about what to teach the DA next year. I think I'll pick out the hundred strongest duellers and teach them some NEWT level stuff. Basic spells just won't cut it any more."

"Don't worry too much about their spell repertoire. Try teaching them tactics or something, it'll be much more useful," Daphne suggested.

"I was thinking the same thing. I'll look up some stuff on guerrilla warfare tactics; it'll serve our purposes nicely."

"Speaking of fighters," Potter continued. "It'd be good for us if we could find a way to reduce recruitment from Slytherin House. I don't want to go up against my classmates if I can help it."

"I'll see what I can do, but don't expect miracles, Potter. Dissuading the younger years from joining will be easy, but the older years have their minds set in stone." She fixed him with a stern look. "I hope you won't be too squeamish while going up against former colleagues, Potter. Mercy has no place in this kind of a war."

"I'm not Dumbledore, Daphne, don't worry." The Boy-Who-Lived traced his scar absently. "I know full well the price of hesitation and second-thoughts on the battlefield."

She wisely chose not to comment on that. "So you're planning to get Fudge kicked out? Who're you going to replace her with?"

"Amelia Bones. Who else?" Potter said brightly.

Daphne arched an eyebrow. "I see, and you've already told her that you're planning to support her candidacy for the Minister post?"

"Er. . ." Potter suddenly looked rather sheepish.

She fixed him with a glare. "Did you at the very least ask her if she _wanted_ the position?"

"Um. . . that is to say. . . I . . ."

Daphne resisted the urge to smack him upside the head. "You really are a moron when it comes to politics, aren't you?"

"Hey!" He protested. "I'll have you know I just entered the Wizarding world four years ago. Not my fault I don't know anything about politicians. Besides, I'm an effing teenager, I'm not _supposed_ to care about politics! I'm supposed to be worrying about girls, Quidditch, girls, studies, girls. . ."

"Fine, fine. . . I get it already!" Daphne grumbled. "I'll get in touch with father and ask his opinion, though I'm pretty certain Lord Black must've mentioned something to him. Meet me tomorrow and we'll discuss everything. And for the love of all that is magical, do _not_ share this insane plan of yours with anyone! Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am!" Potter saluted her. "Lady Greengrass, ma'am!"

After pummeling him thoroughly on the shoulder, Daphne Greengrass made a dignified exit from the classroom.

She sighed softly. One thing was for sure, Harry Potter was going to make a mess of their entire society by the time he was done with the Dark Lord. She almost felt bad for those blood-purist idiots. Almost.

 _Well, at least he's not acting like a bloody hero. . ._

Thank Merlin for small miracles.

* * *

 **AN: My inspiration for Daphne Greengrass's character is Yennefer from the Witcher 3 game. She's strong, independent, has a great political mind, is a bit snobbish and cares greatly for the few people in her life.  
**

 **Oh, and Harry's discovered his hormones. Expect more dirty jokes and coarse language in the future. After all, nearly all the protagonists are in their mid-teens now.**

 **Argus Filch's unfortunate encounter with Lisa Turpin will be further expounded upon in the chapter featuring her POV. Suffice to say it'll be pretty amusing.**

 **This chapter marks another turning point for our hero. Having suffered his first major setback since coming to Hogwarts, he's had an epiphany of sorts. He's realized, unlike his canon counterpart, that the battle with Voldemort doesn't concern him alone and that he needs more allies to win this war effectively. Keep reading to see how this will affect the Second Wizarding War.**

 **Next up: The countdown to the fall of Cornelius Fudge begins. How far will Amelia Bones and her allies go to be rid of their corrupt and incompetent Minister? Keep reading to find out :)  
**

 **Do post your opinions on the story, dear readers. Do you like the direction this story is heading in? Is there any particular character whose POV you wish to see? Remember, your reviews make my day :)  
**


	18. Prison Break

**_July 1996_**

John McDonald drew his cloak around himself and sighed.

How in the name of Merlin was this place so cold in the middle of the bleeding summer!?

 _Azkaban tends to bugger up more than just people, I suppose._

There was a reason that Azkaban prison was in the middle of an island, he reminded himself, and it wasn't just because of security reasons. The sheer amount of magic on the island, partly due to the presence of those. . . those _abominations_ tended to wreak havoc with the ambient magic in its immediate surroundings.

 _Thank goodness for Muggle-repelling charms. . ._

Which explained why he was shivering like hell while standing near the _sea_ so early on an summer day! That and well. . . if he had to be perfectly honest, his current assignment might also be contributing a little to the uncontrollable shaking of his legs.

This was dangerous; much more dangerous than kidnapping and executing Death Eaters, in his opinion. But the Boss said it had to be done, and the Boss' word was law to the Vigilantes.

Besides, if someone _had_ to do it, he'd much rather it be him. He had much better resistance to those fiends, anyways.

 _And speaking of fiends. . . ._

He felt it before he saw it, and quickly cast his Patronus. A shimmering Gray Wolf appeared before him, its warmth flooding him with strength.

Swallowing slightly, John looked up to where it had landed.

A Dementor floated at the very edge of the cliff, its aura of despair and hopelessness tainting everything within its surroundings. John saw the flora in their immediate vicinity wither and die as the foul creature slowly glided towards him.

He supposed he really shouldn't be surprised. This was no ordinary Dementor. No, this was the one the Ministry folks liked to call their ' _Emperor_ ': the oldest and most powerful of all the Dementors of Azkaban, and if rumors were to be believed, all of Europe.

It was also the most intelligent of those foul beasts, and the only one capable of speaking the human tongue, albeit haltingly. As such, it acted as their representative when any orders had to be relayed to their group as a whole.

Watching the ancient being glide towards him, John fought the irrational urge to turn tail and run. He knew he had nothing to fear; there was a small group of his men two hundred meters away watching through a binoculars, ready to apparate in and start blasting away at the first sign of trouble. He also had an emergency portkey charmed to activate the moment he lost consciousness.

Gripping his portkey reassuringly under his cloak and casually holding his wand in the other, John stepped forward. His Patronus walked at his side, ready to attack at a second's notice.

"Glad you decided to drop by," he drawled. "I was getting worried that you wouldn't show up, to be honest."

 _Follow the script! Follow the script! You dumbarse, just follow the script. . ._

John had spent close to ten days rehearsing his part. Old man Blake had made him go through all the lines over and over again until John could practically recite them in his sleep. They even captured a Boggart and forced it into Dementor form for him to practice.

All he had to do was sound like a cocky pureblood Ministry blighter, and the job would be done.

The Emperor drew a deep rattling breath, and John fought the urge to flinch. " ** _State. . . . purpose_**."

 _Bugger me! It **does** speak English, after all. . .  
_

"Our Boss wants to make a deal with you."

" **Who?** _"_ it asked.

John smirked slightly. "Harry Potter."

The very feel of the name on his lips gave John a new-found sense of confidence. That's right, he had nothing to fear. Harry- _bloody_ -Potter was on his side, and there was nothing anyone. . . even this freakish thing could do to harm a hair on his head as long as the Boss was watching over him.

Such was his unshakeable belief in the Boy-Who-Lived.

"You probably remember him? Kid from Hogwarts you and your buddies tried to pick on three years ago? Chased all one hundred of you buggers away with a single Patronus?" He stroked his wolf cockily. "Ring a bell?"

The powerful being seemed to recoil slightly.

 _Holy mother of Merlin! Blake was right. The Boss actually makes these bloody things nervous. . ._

"Oh, what am I talking about? Of course you remember him!" John slapped his forehead in mock-surprise. "You met him again last year, didn't you? Tried to finish him off, didn't you? Didn't work out very well, did it?"

The Dementor actually shuddered now.

 _Interesting reaction. Looks like those tomes were right. These damn things have a hive mind or something. . ._

"I heard," John blithely continued, "that your buddies still haven't recovered from that particular battle. You have my sympathies. . . . you really do."

" ** _Human. . ._** " the being rasped. " ** _What. . . want?_** "

John decided to cut to the chase. "You know who our Boss is. You know what he's capable of. Now, he might not be able to _kill_ you guys. . . but he's more than capable of, I dunno, sealing you bastards into a tomb and leaving you there for all eternity."

The Emperor shuddered violently. John realized that once again the Boss had hit the nail on the head. He was right. . . if there was one thing these foul creatures feared, it was oblivion.

Dementors fed on positive emotions. . . not because they wanted to, but because they _had_ to. They were the very embodiment of negative emotions; despair and death given shape by magic.

But negative emotions cannot sustain themselves for long. Just like prolonged depression in humans could lead to fatal consequences, the intense Dark Magic swirling around them, making up their very being, could potentially destroy them from the inside out. Being solely around their own kind would only exacerbate the process. It was also why Azkaban Prison was constructed on an island instead of being underground as originally planned. . . because Dementors feared being trapped within a closed off location more than anything else.

It had taken the Department of Mysteries a century of painstaking research to uncover this. John had no idea how the Boss had gotten hold of such classified information, but damned if he wasn't grateful!

"What we need," John smirked, "is a small favor from you folks. Just a _small_ favor, really!"

" ** _What?_** " it said cautiously.

"We need access to the 4th corridor of the D-Block. In the West Tower."

" ** _No_** ," the Emperor screeched. It backed away several feet from him, its aura flaring uncontrollably in anger.

An understandable reaction really, given that John had just asked for access to the prison's high security wing.

The Captain of the Vigilantes fought the urge to attack with his Patronus. This was it, the moment that would make or break everything.

"You've seen for yourself how powerful our Boss is," he warned. "And he's only going to get stronger. Do you really want to get on the bad side of such a powerful wizard?"

The malicious aura relented slightly. It looked like he was getting through. Even monsters had a sense of self-preservation, after all.

"All we're asking is for your guards to leave the corridor for half-an-hour. Thirty minutes is all we need."

" ** _. . . ._** "

"If it helps," John said. "No will ever know that you left your positions. We've got someone on the inside who'll make sure nothing is recorded on the Ministry's monitoring devices. All you have to do is send you guards somewhere else, and we'll be gone before you know it."

The Emperor was silent at that. It seemed to be contemplating something. At the very least, it wasn't bellowing its refusal.

 _That was the stick. Time to go for the carrot. . .  
_

"Course, we're not expecting you to do anything for free," he drawled.

That drew its attention.

"We're willing to make you an offer. You help us, and we'll send you fifty more souls to feed on."

The creature moved closer, like a dog inching towards an offered treat. " ** _Souls?_** "

"Many souls," John agreed. He doubted if the bloody thing understood numbers, so it was best to simplify things. "Fresh souls. Fresh prisoners who'll be delivered within a few months. All you got to do is say yes."

The Dementor hovered before him for a while. " _ **Promise?**_ "

John's eyebrows shot up slightly. Bloody thing was smart after all! "Yeah, our Boss gives his word. And he won't go back on it; he's not like that idiot Fudge."

That seemed to do the trick. The Emperor's aura relaxed significantly. Apparently even the Dementors hated Fudge.

 _Wonder what that says about him. . ._

The being regarded John for a few more moments before dipping its head forward in the approximation of a nod. " _ **Agree**_."

John blinked in surprise. _Bloody hell, it worked!_

Quickly gathering himself, he cleared his throat. "That's great. Tomorrow then, when the moon is highest in the sky."

The Emperor nodded once again before it rose upwards. Taking one last look at the wizard, the ancient Dementor turned around and flew back to the island.

John gave a huge sigh of relief. It worked! The crazy plan the Boss came up with worked just like he said it would.

 _Bloody buggering hell!_

With a tired laugh, John dispelled his Patronus and apparated away. He had an operation to plan and a report to send.

But first, he had a small mountain of chocolate to gorge himself on.

* * *

Warden Wilfred McAllister had waited for this day for more than a decade.

He'd gone through hell to secure this posting on Azkaban Island. Years of turning down promotions, purposefully picking fights with the wrong people, greasing the palms of bloody bureaucrats . . .

Years of enduring the ill effects of being near those foul beasts, years of gruelling hard work, years of slowly and steadily rising up the ranks, years of enduring those horrible nightmares. . . all of it for this one moment.

For the day he would see those animals pay for their crimes with his own eyes!

All his life he'd known that this day would come. Sooner or later, someone out there (biding their time like Wilfred himself) would attempt to exact justice . . . _real_ justice on these scum; and former auror Wilfred McAllister wanted to be there when it happened.

His friends said it was unhealthy to hold onto grudges like this, that it did not do to remain so obsessed with the past. . .

Hmph. What the hell did _they_ know?

What did they know the pain of losing your entire family in a single night? What did they know the horror of finding your baby boy's remains scattered all over the living room? What did they know the sorrow of finding your elderly parents' charred remains? What did they know the agony of finding your life's love nailed to the wall like some lowly animal? What did they know the misery of finding your young daughter's corpse in her room, ravaged beyond recognition?

And all for what? Because he refused to look the other way during an investigation? Because he had dared to point the finger of blame at ' _upstanding, pureblood citizens_ '? Because he had the poor sense to be born to _muggleborn_ parents?

He felt tears of anger and hatred fill his eyes, and ruthlessly wiped them away. Now was not the time for such emotions. He had to stay focused!

After all, if everything went as planned, all his problems would be solved inside of an hour. If everything went as he hoped: Travers, Mulciber, Dolohov, the Lestranges. . . . every single bastard responsible for the slaughter of his family would be dead before the night was over.

When Wilfred had first been approached with the proposal, he had nearly laughed out loud. The very idea of _infiltrating_ Azkaban, let alone to kill the ten most high profile prisoners in custody, and getting away with it clean was beyond ludicrous. It was impossible!

But the Vigilantes had been persistent. They claimed that they had a way to get the Dementors away from their targets for a short while, that they could actually _convince_ those beasts to do it of their own volition. They also had a way to get to the island. Something called a motorboat, magically modified and all. The only thing they needed was a way to get in and out without being detected.

Still, Wilfred had been unconvinced. The former auror had always been very leery of trusting anyone since the War. He had no reason to start now, not with a bunch of outlaws anyway.

But then they pulled out their trump card. They told him who their leader was, and Wilfred was stunned.

The moment he confirmed the authenticity of the letter they showed him, he immediately swore on his life and magic to help them any way he could. Then he destroyed the letter and even went so far as to refuse the gold they offered. He wasn't doing it for the galleons after all. He was just paying his debts to the noble child who sacrificed so much to bring them a decade of peace and security.

In the end they agreed, and proposed to donate the money to an orphanage in his Bethany's name. Wilfred thanked them with tears in his eyes.

Now, at exactly eleven PM, he strolled over to a secluded spot near the island shore and dropped off a few packages: spare guard uniforms, and a map of the prison with their targets outlined.

Then he went back to his post and waited.

Wilfred had spent more than ten years working in this hell-hole. He knew every single detail about the prison like the back of his hand: when the guard shift changed, what were the meal times for the prisoners. . .

. . . . and more importantly, how _exactly_ to tamper with the monitoring crystals in the corridors.

The small white globes, devised by the Unspeakables after Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban, were scattered all over the prison courtyards, with its master unit in his office. They were keyed in to the prisoners themselves, and were designed to go off if any of them left their cells at any point of time.

Unfortunately, they weren't very good at detecting if someone else entered the cells from the outside. Oh they'd probably detect a new presence if they lingered for a while. But a simple time-delayed rune drawn in chalk on the table would take care of that.

By the time the device recorded the intruders' presence, they would be long gone.

Wilfred checked the time again. Twelve AM. The guards at the entrance should be leaving now, with the night duty crowd coming in. Any moment now. . .

He felt the wards shift slightly and grinned. Four new individuals had just entered the prison; and judging from the lack of an alarm, their true identities had not been discovered.

Wilfred poured himself a small glass of whiskey and sat back in his chair.

All he had to do now was wait.

* * *

The moonlight shone into the tiny cell, the bars on the window casting long shadows in the ground. The full moon was awash in all its glory.

But the woman in the cell had no eyes for such beauty. Her attention was fixed firmly on her left hand.

The years had not been kind to Bellatrix Lestrange. Where once her good looks had captured the attention of the Dark Lord himself, there now sat a thin woman, her face hollowed and skull-like.

But for the first time in a decade, something was different. For the first time in a decade Bellatrix felt. . . . _alive_.

She stroked the tattoo on her forearm gently, crooning to it as though it were her new-born babe.

For even Bellatrix Lestrange's addled mind could decipher what it meant for the Mark to reappear as it had.

Her greatest wish had been fulfilled. Her Master had returned!

She cackled to herself in the darkness. She knew it. She knew it! She _knew_ he would return someday. She knew those mudbloods and fools were wrong when they said her Lord was dead!

Her Lord was eternal, infinite, immortal. He was like the elements themselves, a force of nature unlike any other. . . even _death_ could not hope to hold him!

Bellatrix rocked back and forth, giggling slightly. Soon he would come for her, soon she would stand at his side again, soon she would once again go forth into the world to do his will. She would rain hellfire upon those fools who dared to stand in her Master's way, destroy all those who dared oppose him; and when all his enemies were dead, and the vultures feasted on their corpses, she would watch as the whole country fell to their knees and placed him upon a golden throne. And she would be there by his side. . . for ever, and ever and ever!

She sighed and looked wistfully at the door. Bellatrix wondered what she would do as soon as she got out. Perhaps she'd go out and bathe in the blood of a few mudbloods. Or perhaps she could finish off that auror couple. What was their name? Longarse? Bigbottom? Whatever. She also remembered that they'd had a boy. He must be all grown up, now. Perhaps, perhaps she could play with him a little. Perhaps she could. . .

Bellatrix jumped as her door creaked open loudly. She glared suspiciously as a huge man, wearing a prison guard uniform, walked in.

She scooted backwards slightly, clutching her left arm to her chest. She couldn't let them take it away. She wouldn't! Her _Lord_ had given her his Mark! She would die before she. . .

"Bellatrix Lestrange," the man said in a soft baritone. "I have a message for you."

A _message_!? Could it be her Lord? She leaned forwards eagerly. "What is it?"

"Frank and Alice Longbottom send their regards."

Bellatrix barely registered the words before a massive boot swung into her face. She gasped in pain as she fell to the side, her jaw shattered and the coppery taste of blood tinging her mouth. The entire world seemed to spin as she landed face-first onto the cold, hard floor. She barely had time to regain her bearings before the huge man jumped onto her back, trapping her arms with his knees.

A dozen years ago, Bellatrix would already be launching a counter-attack by now. But a dozen years of Dementor exposure dulls even the sharpest of senses. She howled in pain and jerked weakly. But her attacker merely grabbed the back of her head and slammed her face into the ground, breaking her nose and disorienting her even further.

Then the wizard straddling her drew a thick leather strap from his robes and, as daintily as a little girl slipping a ribbon over the head of a kitten, threw it around Bellatrix's neck. The woman's eyes bulged and she twitched desperately, but her attacker simply leaned backwards, using the weight of his own body to slowly crush her windpipe.

Still Bellatrix struggled, her hands beating against the stone floor desperately, a gurgled scream issuing from her mouth. But her strength and magic had weakened greatly due to lack of use. After two agonizing minutes, she stopped struggling and the light of life disappeared from her eyes. Her last minutes had been filled with desperate pleas of help to her Lord and Master, all of which went unanswered.

The wizard held the strap tight for another minute to make sure, and then checked her pulse. He then got off her back and started tearing long strips of cloth from her worn robes, ripping off her sleeves entirely.

In less than five minutes, Bellatrix Lestrange was hanging from the bars of her cell window. A few healing charms and the outward damage to her face disappeared, and an upturned waste bucket was placed at her feet. For all the world knew, Bellatrix had hanged herself from a coarse rope made from her own clothing, in the dead of the night.

Perfect.

Another figure stepped forward to inspect the handiwork and nodded approvingly. "Nice work. We got the other Lestranges and Dolohov by the way. Time to meet the others."

"Give me a minute," the first wizard said. His eyes burned hatefully at the woman who sentenced two good people to a fate worse than death.

John placed a hand on his shoulder. "Mate, now's not the time."

"This was too easy for her," Former auror Jackson growled. "Bitch deserved to _suffer!_ "

"They all do. But we're going for efficiency, here. Now c'mon, we've got twenty minutes left."

With one last hateful look at the deceased Death Eater, Jackson followed his friend out the door.

There was work to be done.

* * *

Cornelius Fudge felt like he was going to have a heart attack.

"Wha-What did you say?" he asked faintly.

"I said they're dead, sir," Percy Weasley said nervously. "All of the high-profile Death Eaters in Azkaban. They're dead."

"All _ten_ of them!?"

"Well. . . yes, sir. All ten of them."

"H-how?" Fudge asked. His throat felt dry.

"Suicide. . . . apparently."

" _All_ of them?"

"Yes, sir."

"Preposterous," the Minister exclaimed. "That's utterly preposterous! How could ten prisoners commit suicide on the same night?"

"They did, sir." Percy pushed up his horn-rimmed spectacles and looked at his report. "Warden McAllister claims that there was a disturbance in the West Tower at one AM in the morning. Apparently the Dementors were getting agitated. He and his team went to check up on the prisoners and well. . ."

He cleared his throat. "Bellatrix Lestrange was found hanging herself from her window, Rudolphus Lestrange had bashed his head into a nearby wall, Antonin Dolohov had slit his throat with the jagged edge of his spoon, Augustus Rookwood. . ."

"All right, all right I understand!" Fudge cut him off. He felt his stomach churn slightly and judging from Weasley's rather green face, the details only got worse. "Are-are we absolutely sure there was no foul play involved?"

"No, sir. At least not until we have an investigation. . ."

"There will be no talk of an _investigation_ , Weasley!" Fudge snapped. He absolutely despised the i-word with a passion. Investigation, his bloody left nut!

"Very. . very well, sir! Warden McAllister is waiting for instructions on what to do with the bodies."

"Hmm. . . . oh, very well; tell him. . ." Fudge trailed off, looking thoughtful.

No, no it would not do to follow proper procedure in this case. If he ordered the bodies to be released to their relatives, there would be demands for an inquiry into their deaths. Quite a few of them had relatives high up in the Ministry. . . including Bellatrix Lestrange. Fudge realized with a sudden sinking feeling that his good friend Lucius would not be pleased with the apparent suicide of his sister-in-law.

Besides, if he released the information about these deaths now, then he would only be giving his enemies more ammunition to use against him. Dumbledore had been rather quiet of late, no doubt cowed by Fudge's superior intuition and sense of strategy. This kind of scandal would be exactly what he needed to start causing trouble again. He'd start spouting shite about You-Know-Who coming back from the dead again, and all of his and Dolores' hard work would be for nothing!

No, no this would not do at all.

He _had_ to keep this information under wraps, at all cost. Fudge would order the Azkaban warden to get rid of the corpses for now, and then maybe a year later he could make up a story about their deaths. He could say they all died of. . . of _Dragon pox!_ That's right, an outbreak of Dragon pox in the prison which _tragically_ claimed the lives of all those prisoners.

He could even use this story to introduce a new bill for increasing healthcare expenditure for the prisoners, which naturally would go into his own pocket. Fudge nodded to himself. Perfect. It was absolutely perfect.

"Tell the Warden to dispose of the corpses, and swear all his staff to secrecy," The Minister ordered. "I'm classifying this under the Official Secrets Act, and no one is to say anything about this matter without my express permission."

"What!? But sir. . . ."

"No buts!" Fudge snapped. " _I_ am the Minister, Weasley! _I_ am the one in charge, and what I says goes. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Minister."

"Good. Now see to it that it's taken care of." He waved his hand in dismissal.

After his aide left, Fudge settled back into his chair. He reached into his desk and pulled out a decanter, pouring himself a glass of scotch with a shaking hand.

For the first time in a _very_ long while, he couldn't help but wonder if there was any truth to Dumbledore's insane ramblings. Was You-Know-Who _really_ back? Could he really have found a way to resurrect himself? It would certainly explain a lot of things from the last two years: the disappearance of Bertha Jorkins, the murder of Barty Crouch Sr, the deaths of upstanding Ministry employees like Macnair, the rumors of that vigilante group, these strange suicides. . .

No, no it couldn't be true! Fudge was just being paranoid. Dead men don't come back to life! No doubt, this was all part of Dumbledore's plan. Yes, yes that was right! That wily old bugger wanted to take his position, and was doing all this to simply distract him.

As if he, Cornelius Fudge, would fall for something so foolish. Just how simple-minded did Dumbledore _think_ he was? Ha! Senile old coot!

He drained his glass, and returned to his paperwork. Hmph, _more_ expenses! Hmmm. . . perhaps he should try to confiscate the vaults of all those dead people. Nah. . . it'd draw unnecessary attention, and then he'd have to deal with the goblins. Nasty little buggers, they all were! Besides, he could always do it later when he released the official statement for their deaths next year.

Mentally patting himself on the back for such brilliant ideas, Cornelius Fudge went back to work.

* * *

It was a happy Percy Weasley who made his way back home. It was the first time in _months_ that he'd actually gotten off work before nine PM. The Minister had insisted that he go home as soon as he delivered his orders to Warden McAllister.

While he could have easily apparated into his apartment, Percy much preferred to walk home instead. The muggle neighbourhood he and his long-time girlfriend lived in was beautiful, and he always enjoyed his night-time walks when he could.

Thinking of Penelope brought a lecherous grin to the former Head Boy's face. They hadn't been able to spend much time together since they were both so busy with their careers. But tonight was going to be a good night. . . oh yes, a very good night indeed!

His face brightened as he placed a hand on his front door. It seemed that Penny was home even earlier today. Excellent, excellent!

Percy opened the door and swiftly stepped inside. The hall was still dark. He repressed a pleasure-filled shudder when he recalled the last time he'd come home to a darkened hallway, and gone into the bedroom to find a wonderful surprise waiting for him.

"Oh Peeeenny!" He called out, chucking his travelling cloak on the sofa. "I'm hooooooome!"

"Welcome back, Weatherby."

Percy nearly jumped out of his skin. He narrowed his eyes, and was _just_ able to make out a solitary person sitting at the kitchen table, facing him directly.

"Who's there?" He barked, hand moving towards his wand. "Where's Penny?"

"Penelope is a little. . . _indisposed_ at the moment."

"What's that supposed to mean? Show yourself, coward!"

"Very well. Since you're asking so _nicely_. . . "

The lights suddenly came on, forcing him to shield his eyes. Percy blinked furiously and squinted into the kitchen. . .

. . . and looked straight into the smirking face of the of the Boy-Who-Lived, his bright emerald eyes shining with mirth.

"Hello, Weatherby."

"Potter!" Percy snarled, and plunged his hand into his robes.

* * *

 **AN: Dun, dun, dun. . . . cliffhanger time! Yeah, I know I'm evil ;)**

 **Some of you might be a little disappointed that Voldy's inner circle met such tame deaths. Unfortunately, there was no way in hell a pragmatist like Harry would _not_ strike at Azkaban where his enemies were holed up in a single area, unable to fight back. **

**But do not despair, my dear readers! I fully intend to make up for this with lots of epic battles in the coming future.**

 **Some of you have pointed out that the frequent jump in timelines is a little confusing sometimes. Hence, from this chapter onwards, I'll do my very best to mention dates wherever appropriate. Regarding the previous chapters, feel free to mention if there are any areas where I need to do the same.**

 **Thanks a lot for all your wonderful reviews. Keep em coming :)**


	19. Phoenix Ascendant - I

**AN: Due to popular demand, I'm posting the first chapter on Dumbledore's POV now. The continuation for chapter 18's cliffhanger will be next.**

* * *

 ** _J_ _uly 1996_**

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sighed as he read the latest report from Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Dead. All ten of them were dead.

Ten of Voldemort's inner circle members, some of them almost as cruel and terrible as he, were dead in a single night.

 _Suicide. . . ._

Albus shook his head. Only a fool would believe that any of those ten could have committed suicide, especially when they were undoubtedly aware of his return; and for all ten of them to shuffle off the mortal coil in a single night was _beyond_ absurd.

He sighed softly. While Albus felt no great sympathy for their loss, a part of him still couldn't help but remember those individuals as they had been in their youth; Augustus Rookwood, Antonin Dolohov, Bellatrix Lestrange. . . . all of them had been extremely bright and ambitious students who once walked these hallowed halls of learning. The fact that they grew up to become creatures of violence was a tragedy in and of itself.

But as sorry as he felt for these children, he felt even sorrier for their victims.

His thoughts went to young Neville Longbottom, who lost a chance to grow up with his parents because of Bellatrix; he thought of Gideon and Fabian Prewitt, who lost a chance to spoil their equally mischievous nephews because of Dolohov. . .

So much pain, so much suffering, such tragedy. . . . there were days when he felt so _tired_ of it all. Albus had seen much more death in his lifetime than any reasonable man should be expected to.

But the greatest tragedy, in his opinion, was that no one would mourn the passing of these ten individuals. The wicked should also have a few tears shed on their graves, even if they didn't necessarily deserve them.

He gazed out of the window in his office, into the crimson rays of the setting sun.

Albus couldn't help but wonder: would anyone genuinely mourn his passing? Would anyone shed honest tears over his grave? Would anybody even care?

After everything he did, all the death and destruction he caused, all the lives he had ruined through his inaction. . . would he ever find peace in the next great adventure?

And most important of all, would he even _deserve_ it?

* * *

 _ **February, 1944**_

"Albus! Albus! Albus, I'm coming in!"

The door unlocked and Headmaster Dippet stepped into the dimly lit quarters. He cast one look around the entire room and moved towards the young man sitting at his desk.

The Hogwarts Transfiguration professor had always been a rather unforgettable man, both in appearance and personality. The auburn haired man was sixty-two years old, but usually looked like he barely into his thirties. His face was that of the distinguished scholar, a short beard hiding his chin and doing an admirable job of directing attention away from his rather crooked long nose. His bright blue eyes sparkled with intelligence and enthusiasm behind half-moon spectacles.

Yet, for the first time in his life Armando Dippet had trouble connecting the wizard at that desk to his Deputy Headmaster.

Tonight, Albus Dumbledore looked every bit of his sixty-two years. The bags under his eyes were distinct signs of severe sleep deprivation, and his face was sunken and gaunt. His blue eyes no longer had that customary twinkle in them, instead they were staring straight ahead at a framed photo in his hands.

Dippet looked at the untouched food lying on the desk and sighed, vanishing it with a wave of his wand. He then dragged his chair to sit beside his colleague, and leaned forward.

"Albus," he spoke gently. "Albus, you need to stop this now."

There was no response.

"It's been _three days_ , Albus. Three days! You haven't eaten, slept or stepped out of this room for too long. This has to stop!"

Once again, the young wizard said nothing, continuing to stare morosely at the photo.

Dippet slowly put his hand on the forearm of his colleague. "Albus, please. You need to pull yourself together. The faculty, the students. . . everyone is extremely concerned. You cannot keep doing this to yourself, old friend!"

Still he said nothing, though he did not jerk his hand away, which Dippet considered an improvement.

After another minute of silence, he finally spoke. "Two years."

"What?"

"Two years, Armando," his voice was hoarse with lack of use. "Two years of happiness was all they had."

Dippet sighed. "Albus, we've discussed this before. You cannot go around feeling responsible for every single person Grindelwald kills. . ."

"I could have stopped him," Albus interrupted. "I _should_ have stopped him. They were right, you know: I should have stopped him when I had the chance."

Dippet inwardly cursed at the insensitivity of the Wizarding Public. Ever since Bathilda Bagshot had given that interview two years ago, blaming his colleague for the way her _'sweet'_ nephew turned out, the school had been practically inundated with letters from all over Europe. Cries for help, death threats, violent Howlers accusing him of being a coward. . . Albus Dumbledore had been weathering this storm for quite some time now.

This last incident was the proverbial straw that broke the hippogriff's back.

"Herbert Dagworth-Granger's death was not your fault, Albus," Dippet said quietly.

"Was," he croaked, and Dippet had to resist the urge to smack the man. How in the name of Merlin could Albus blame himself for something that happened a thousand leagues away, in a completely different country!?

He supposed he really shouldn't be surprised. Albus had always been close to the son of his late friend Hector Dagworth-Granger, the celebrated Potions Master. He had even officiated his wedding two years ago, having watched both the bride and groom grow up in Hogwarts together. The news of Herbert's death in a surprise attack on Paris had hit him hard.

"They were going to have children, you know," Albus spoke suddenly. "Herbert told me. They were waiting for another year before having a child and settling down in Scotland."

"Rosalind doesn't blame you, Albus. Nobody does." Well, nobody who mattered anyway. Dippet was glad that young Rosalind was a much too decent person to blame Albus for her loss, as so many people were wont to do these days. He prayed that the nice lass would one day get over her grief and find love again; she was much too young, after all.

"She doesn't need to. I blame myself."

Dippet felt his ire rise.

 _Bloody Gryffindors and their nobility. . ._

"Then you are a fool!" Dippet snapped, finally losing his patience with the man.

The Hogwarts Headmaster jumped up from his seat and paced up and down in the office. "Understand this: you are _not_ responsible for the safety of the world! You are a teacher at a school, an academician. . . not a soldier. Granted you may be one of the most magically powerful wizards in Europe, but that does _not_ give the public the right to dump these responsibilities on your shoulders!"

He stopped to glare at the younger man. "This war is far bigger than whatever history you have with Gellert Grindelwald, Albus. There are forces at play that even _you_ do not fully understand; so please, for the love of Merlin, do _not_ tell me that you actually want to get involved in all this!"

Albus shot his colleague a wan smile. "Correct me if I am wrong, Armando; but wasn't you who once said, close to five decades ago when you caught me hexing a Seventh-year, that I should learn to grow up because, and I quote, ' _someone blessed with your talent has a responsibility to our society to do the best you can_ '."

Dippet scowled at him. Why that infuriating little. . ! Using his _own_ words against him. "You know full well I wasn't referring to duelling Dark Lords when I said that!"

The young wizard merely chuckled slightly. "I know you weren't, old friend. But you were right back then, more than you knew. Had I taken my head out of the clouds and focused on the world around me, perhaps. . . perhaps a great many tragedies might have been avoided." He sighed tiredly, eyes growing distant. "Perhaps I would have been able to stop Gellert before he set himself on this path, perhaps if I had seen the signs, acted sooner. . ."

Dippet narrowed his eyes. He had long since suspected that there was more to the past between those two men than Albus admitted, but it was not in his nature to pry into the affairs of others. He still wasn't going to let his colleague go off on a suicide mission without a fight.

"Albus, be reasonable! The man is a Dark Lord, one of the most fearsome duellers the Wizarding world has seen in a long time. He has the ear of that muggle, Hitler himself, and almost all the higher ups of the German Ministry for Magic answer to him. You may be one of the most brilliant men in our world, but you are just a _professor_! What could you hope to achieve against him when so many hundreds of aurors have failed?"

"I do not know, Armando. I honestly do not know if there is anything significant I can accomplish, but I know this," his blue eyes seemed to harden slightly. "I know I have spent the last many years running away. It is time to stop and finally face the truth. No more running, no more hiding. . . I will go forth and meet my past, and I _will_ overcome it at any cost."

Dippet had no idea what he was talking about and he honestly didn't care. "Albus, you are only one man. . ."

"Sometimes that is all it takes, old friend. Sometimes all it takes for history to change course is for one man to take a stand; for one individual to stand up and say, ' _No more. I have had enough!'_ "

Albus sighed and got to his feet suddenly, his face alert once again. "Headmaster," he said in a formal tone. "I would like to request a leave of absence from my duties to the school."

Dippet sighed in defeat. He knew when he'd lost. Once Albus got that look in his eye, it was impossible to reason with him further. "Albus, you haven't taken a single day off in the _thirty-five years_ you've worked here. You could take the next two years off and nobody would hold it against you."

"Then I shall do so. Thank you, Armando. . . . for everything."

"Don't do that, Albus. Just. . . just make sure you come back in one piece. I'd hate to have to appoint a new Transfiguration teacher this close to my retirement."

The younger man smiled softly. "Of course, Headmaster. Merlin forbid I delay your retirement to that wonderful island with clothing-optional beaches! Where was it again? France?"

Dippet merely glowered at him.

* * *

 _ **January 1945**_

Auror-Commander Bernard Silvestre dived behind another pile of rubble.

" _Est-ce que quelqu'un est là!?_ " He screamed into an enchanted mirror. " _Nous avons besoin de renforts!_ "

There was no response. Cursing under his breath, he tapped his mirror again. "Zis is ze 45th company," he shouted in English. "Position compromised! We need reinforcements!"

Once again, there was no answer.

Silvestre swore as another barrage of spell-fire rained down on his position. The situation was getting worse by the minute; they'd already sustained heavy casualties in the last few hours and Grindelwald's soldiers weren't letting up their attacks for even an instant. The ICW contingent that was supposed to provide backup wasn't answering their communication mirrors, which meant that either they were engaged on another front. . . or Ancestors forbid, already dead.

To make matters worse, the enemy had somehow managed to set loose a mad Erumpent in the field, which ran around slaughtering everyone in its path. Meanwhile, the enemy soldiers stayed on higher ground far away from its rampage, taking potshots at any aurors being forced out of their cover. The beast's high resistance to magic made it incredibly difficult to neutralize, and no one dared to cast any high-level curses at it lest they ignite the highly explosive fluid within its deadly horn.

Silvestre cursed vilely under his breath. How in the world did they manage to smuggle this creature all the way to Marseille without being discovered, he would never know.

He cast a morose look at what was left of his entire company. They were all cowering behind whatever meagre cover they could find. The fight had long since gone out of them, and they almost seemed resigned to their fates.

 _No, this cannot happen. We **must** retake Marseille!  
_

They were too close to driving out Grindelwald's forces completely from France. Marseille was the last major city; if they retook it today France would forever be rid of those scum.

Silvestre gritted his teeth. There was no other choice: he would run up to the crazed Erumpent and throw his strongest shield around them both, before casting a Reductor curse at its horn. The explosion would certainly kill him, but the ensuing dust and chaos would give his men the time they'd need to fall back and regroup. He only prayed that they'd return with reinforcements and take back this beautiful city from the Dark Lord's forces.

He gently kissed his wedding ring, saying a small prayer for his beloved Anne's continued good health. His eyes alight with determination, he stood up and charged the Erumpent, weaving between enemy spells. He just had to. . .

Silvestre had barely taken a few steps before the ground beneath him shook violently. He was thrown off his feet as a massive shock-wave swept across the ground, uphill towards the enemy soldiers, and then smashed into them with such great force that the very foundation of the building they were on seemed to tremble.

A second later, a column of stone rose from the ground, right underneath the Erumpent. Silvestre watched in shock as the jagged rock tore through the beast's underbelly, neatly skewering it on the pillar and sending it thirty feet into the air.

The veteran auror gaped wordlessly at the Erumpent screaming its death-throes while suspended high above the ground. Then to his amazement, the pillar of stone stretched backwards like rubber and launched the dying creature into the air. . . straight at the enemy soldiers huddled together.

The Erumpent barely crashed into the dazed fighters before a powerful curse lanced through the air, hitting the creature dead on. Silvestre hardly had time to throw up a shield before the Erumpent exploded, sending a shower of blood and gore in all directions.

Everything was over in less than a minute.

Silvestre blinked hard and shook his head, trying to clear his ringing ears. He glanced around at his men, most of whom were slowly getting to their feet. Turning around at the source of the last curse, Silvestre squinted through the dust cloud; he could barely make out a shape walking towards them.

The wizard who strode forward wore standard-issue ICW battle robes, with the insignia of the British Ministry for Magic on his left breast, and the French Ministry's on the right. His tall stature cut an imposing figure as he stood upon a large pile of rubble, a halo of pure energy surrounding his body. Silvestre's jaw dropped at the sight of the ICW's greatest fighter, the man affectionately known as the Hero of the People: Albus Dumbledore.

Bernard Silvestre felt a kind of electric charge surge through every particle of his body. . . _they were saved!_

Dumbledore cast his eyes over the remnants of the 45th Company, his face sombre, his wand held aloft in the air. "Take up arms," he called out, in a voice loaded with power and resolve. "FIGHT!"

A huge cheer broke out from the crowd. Every single one of them, who had been ready to give up a scant few minutes ago, suddenly felt energized. Hope had returned to the battlefield with a vengeance.

It was Silvestre who noticed another unit of enemy soldiers slowly approaching their position. He didn't even hesitate.

" _Affrontez les ennemis! Ne pas subir! Vive la France! Vive la ICW!_ " He bellowed.

The 45th Company hollered their battle cry and charged forwards. Dumbledore met his eyes and nodded once, sweeping forwards to join the fray.

Silvestre followed the Strongest Wizard of their Age with a grin on his face. It was time to take back their home!

* * *

History is truly full of strange coincidences. While the June of 1944 brought a major turning point in the Second World War, a similar turn-around was being seen in the European Wizarding War against the army of the Dark Lord Grindelwald.

The difference was that while the former was due to the tireless efforts of the Allied forces as a whole, the credit for the latter could be laid solely on the shoulders of one man.

Provided, of course, that there was anyone out there willing to _consider_ Albus Dumbledore a mere man.

Some called him a reincarnation of Merlin, walking the earth to right the wrongs of wizard-kind; some claimed that he was a force of nature given human form; some claimed that he was avatar of the Ancestors, fighting to restore order to the Dark Lord's chaos. . . .

But the one point everyone, ally and enemy, agreed upon was that Albus Dumbledore's achievements on the battlefield were nothing short of a miracle.

The citizens of Bordeaux spoke in hushed whispers of the wizard who liberated their entire city single-handedly, walking the streets with his aura blazing so powerfully that his very _presence_ caused lesser magicals to collapse in exhaustion. The Italian 67th Company swore up and down that they saw him battle an entire battalion of enemy soldiers by himself, the very buildings around him twisting and turning to his direction. The former POWs from Lyon recounted, with tears in their eyes, stories of the hero who simply crashed through the powerful wards around their internment camp and slaughtered all the guards before portkeying them en-masse to safety. The Dutch Magical Guard described the epic battle at Amsterdam where the British wizard effortlessly held his own against five of Grindelwald's strongest lieutenants, three of whom were almost as feared as the Dark Lord himself.

The Dark Lord's troops had met with a great deal of success in their initial campaign, taking over entire countries before arriving at the borders of France. The French Ministry was able to mobilize quite a large army to oppose them, aided and abetted by the legendary Flamels. Yet, even with the intellect of two of the greatest magicals in the world behind them, the most the French and ICW troops (who were spread out too thin fighting on multiple fronts and protecting the International Statue of Secrecy) could do was slow Grindelwald's forces down. Despite their best efforts city after city fell to the Dark Lord, and his men were only a few months from taking over Paris.

All hope seemed lost, until Albus Dumbledore entered the battlefield.

In a matter of months, the tables had been turned entirely on the Dark Lord's army. Dumbledore was an unstoppable juggernaut who took back entire cities by himself, wiping out whole companies in the process. Stories of his successes bolstered his already fearsome reputation, turning him into a powerful player in the war practically overnight.

The ICW was quick to capitalize on this. Realizing the British wizard's value to the war, they quickly diverted their troop to Italy to supplement the fighters there. At the same time a new team was commissioned under the leadership of Nicholas Flamel (Dumbeldore's friend and mentor), whose sole purpose was to act as tactical support for Albus Dumbledore.

This was where Flamel's genius really showed. He quickly realized that while Dumbledore's sheer power rendered most strategies and enemy tactics useless, he could not keep attacking enemy positions head-on forever; he was needed to duel Grindelwald himself. Hence, Flamel devised a more cunning strategy: a strike team consisting of Dumbledore and four of the French Ministry's strongest fighters, who adopted a hit-and-run tactic to gradually weaken enemy morale. This was met with great success and in less than a year, France was retaken.

Meanwhile, the combined forces of the ICW, British and Italian Ministries took back more ground from the Dark Lord's troops with each passing month. In the east the Russian Ministry, along with whatever was left of the Polish resistance, continued to push the enemy back. With the Danish aurors holding their ground in the north, Grindelwald's men were completely surrounded and forced to retreat all the way back to Nurmengard, their headquarters.

By the July of 1946, Gellert Grindelwald's territory contained only a small region around his main base of operations. The Dark Lord had barricaded himself in his stronghold, which also acted as a prison for his opponents.

In the end, it was proposed to have Albus Dumbledore infiltrate Nurmengard and kill the Dark Lord. The unenviable task of finding a way around the fortress's near insurmountable wards once again fell to Nicholas Flamel; but after a few months of research (during which both sides were locked in a stalemate) the French alchemist devised a simple amulet that would allow them to circumvent the wards.

The catch was that only someone with Dumbledore's level of magical power could hope to use it and still remain standing.

There was nothing else for it now: Albus Dumbledore would have to face the Dark Lord Grindelwald in battle all by himself.

But as the British wizard so eloquently put it, he wouldn't have it any other way.

The stage was set for a clash of the titans, with the fate of the world hanging in the balance.

* * *

 _ **October 1946**_

Albus Dumbledore watched dispassionately as the young witch fell to the ground, clutching her bleeding neck. She gurgled in pain before going still, her blue eyes empty.

His eyes softened slightly. The poor misguided girl could not have been more than twenty years old, dead now because of her convictions. . . . because she chose to throw in her lot with a madman.

 _Yet another sin to lay at Gellert's feet. . . ._

Albus looked up in contempt at the massive gates of the Fortress Nurmengard. The words "For the Greater Good" were engraved upon it in huge lettering.

 _Four words. Four words which caused so much suffering and death, four foolish words that cost me **everything**. . . _

He levelled his wand at the abomination and fired off his strongest Blasting hex. With an ear-shattering explosion, the enormous doors flew off their hinges and Albus Dumbledore strode forward.

He stood in the front of the courtyard, glancing around. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Albus frowned. He'd expected troops to start rushing in immediately, had counted on it. . . yet it seemed as though there was no one here.

Could their intelligence have been wrong? Had Gellert escaped? Had they been. . ?

The sound of slow, methodical clapping roused him from his thoughts.

" _Ausgezeichnet! Ausgezeichnet, mein Freund!_ "

"Gellert," Albus said quietly.

The years had changed his former friend greatly. The young bright-eyed teenager had turned into a tall and formidable-looking man, his blond hair tied back in a ponytail, his grey eyes shrewd and calculating.

"Albus, _mein Freund_. It has been a while."

"It has," he agreed. "Where are your soldiers, Gellert?"

"Hiding in the fortress," Grindelwald said simply. "Despite what you may think, I know when I am beaten, Albus. I know, that with end of the Muggle World War, there is simply no way for me to regain that which I have lost. So I ordered my men to stay behind; they will surrender themselves unconditionally to the ICW when your friends finally deign to arrive."

Albus bowed his head. "Then what of your welcoming committee?" He gestured to the pile of corpses behind him.

"Oh, them. They were just here to greet you." Grindelwald glanced at the dismembered bodies dispassionately. "I suppose they were a little over-enthusiastic with their welcoming party. You know how the youngsters are, being a school teacher and all."

"They were children!" Albus exploded. He could not believe the flippant manner in which his old friend spoke about his fallen soldiers.

" _Ja_ , Albus, they were children. Children who were denied their birthright by you and your self-righteous friends!" Grindelwald shot him an ugly look. "These children deserved to live in a world where they were _respected_ for their gifts. A world where wizard-kind ruled over the lesser creatures as they were _meant_ to! But _you_ ," he pointed a vicious finger at his old friend, "you and those fools at the ICW would have them share the bountiful resources of this planet with those. . . those animals! You would have them live in fear and apprehension, hiding in holes like rats when it should be the _muggles_ hiding from us!"

"Violence is never the answer, Gellert," Albu said quietly.

"It is if you're using enough of it!" He shook his head in exasperation. "Look around you, Albus! See how much a determined wizard is capable of accomplishing. In a matter of months, _months_ , I was able to take control of the biggest muggle army on the continent. A few whispers here, a few imperios there, and I threw the whole world into chaos!"

"And caused the deaths of millions!" Albus snarled. " _Millions_ , Gellert! Millions are dead because of your actions! Do you not feel an ounce of regret?"

" _Nein_ , I do not. I may feel some remorse for the loss of Wizarding lives, but that is on the hands of you and your allies, not mine. As for the muggles," he snorted, "pray tell why I should feel sorry if the blood of a few animals is spilt?"

Albus gaped in astonishment. "How could you say. . . ?"

"Say what, Albus? The truth? They are _die Tiere_ ; beasts unworthy of our attention or acknowledgement. Even your beloved ICW feels this way, though those hypocrites will never admit it as I do." Grindelwald frowned. "It is you who I find difficult to believe, old friend. How can you fight against your own kind for the sake of those beasts? Have you forgotten about what they did to your family? Have you forgotten about Ariana?"

"Do not speak her name!" Albus bellowed, his aura flaring threateningly.

"Why not?" Grindelwald was unimpressed. "She may not have been my blood, but I loved her like I did my own family. She was also _mein kleine Schwester_! You may have forgotten about her, Albus but I. . ."

"I never forgot about her, Gellert. I never forgot _anything_." Albus fought hard to keep the tears from showing.

"Then join me, _mein Freund_! Join me, and together we can accomplish all our dreams! Everything that we ever hoped to have is within our grasp, Albus. We only have to. . ."

"Our dreams," Albus said sadly. "Our dreams were nothing but the follies of our youth; the ramblings of foolish children."

"No, they weren't, Albus. See for yourself!"

With a flourish Grindelwald took out his wand, causing Albus to raise his own on instinct. He blinked when he realized that the wizard was holding it out to him.

"Do you not see it, Albus? Do you _still_ not see it!?"

Albus looked at him in confusion. "Gellert, what am I supposed to. . ?"

Then clarity hit him like a lightning bolt.

"It cannot be!" Albus croaked. "Is that. . . ?"

" _Ja, Liebling Schatz_! It is the Elder Wand!" Grindelwald cried. "I did it, Albus! I accomplished our dreams. I found one of the Deathly Hallows!"

Albus felt his entire world flip upside down. "Are you sure this is it?"

"Oh it is!" Grindelwald said with relish. "It took me years, but I eventually found it with the old wandmaker, Mykew Gregorovitch." He laughed hysterically. "The first place I should have thought to look for, but did not!"

"I have seen its power for myself, Albus. _Diese wand ist sagenhaft_! It has power no wand can ever hope to match! And that is not even the best part. . ."

Grindelwald leaned forward excitedly. "Albus, I know where the other two Hallows are!"

Albus gaped at him. "You mean. . ?"

"The Stone and the Cloak? _Ja, ja_ I know where they are; and you will not believe me if I told you!"

"Where?"

"Britain!" He practically squealed. " _Unglaubich, nein_! All this time two of the Hallows were right under our noses, and we didn't even know," Grindelwald laughed again.

Albus' head was reeling with all these revelations. The Hallows were real!? Gellert already had the strongest of them? And the other two were back at home?"

"Gellert, I. . . I don't know what to say. . . ."

"Just say you will join me, _mein Freund_!" Grindelwald begged. "We don't have to continue with this! Just say yes and we shall leave all this behind. To _Holle_ with the ICW and all of them! We can reunite the Hallows together and go forth to fulfill our dreams again. Just say yes, Albus! _Ich flehe dich an!_ "

Albus looked into the eyes of the man he'd once called his friend, the man he once loved more than anyone else. . . even his own family. It was then that he finally realized something that he'd never wanted to believe before.

The Gellert Grindelwald he'd loved was dead.

He felt the bile rise in his throat at the sight of the man before him. The unbridled greed in his eyes, the excited trembling of his hands, that calculating look on his face. . . this was _not_ the Gellert he'd known and loved.

 _Or perhaps he'd always been this way, and only I never saw it. . . ._

"No."

" _Was?_ "

"I said _no,_ Gellert. I will not acquiesce to your foolish requests, nor will I allow you to continue with these delusions of grandeur," Albus' eyes blazed in anger.

The false warmth immediately disappeared from Grindelwald's eyes. His wand snapped to his side and his face wore a very ugly expression. "This is your final word?"

"It is," Albus said quietly.

"Then we have nothing more to say to each other."

"No, nothing."

The two most powerful wizards of their age stared at each other for a few moments, and an invisible beam of understanding seemed to shoot through them.

Everything that they'd both been through, everything that had transpired in their lives. . . . all of it led up to this moment. The only thing that mattered to each of the them was the destruction of the other, and _nothing_ was going to get in their way.

They assumed the standard duelling position, and at the count of three, they struck.

* * *

Albus had to admit that this was easily the most difficult fight he'd ever been in. As powerful as he was, at the end of the day he was a scholar, not a fighter. Grindelwald, on the other hand, had spent decades recruiting an army to take over the continent, and immersed himself deeply into the Dark Arts.

Then there was that wand of his. . . .

Albus watched in amazement as Grindelwald obliterated his massive stone golem with a lazy flick of his wand. Albus swept his wand across the ground, and a large number of conjured wolves raced across to attack the Dark Lord. His opponent merely swept his wand across the ground and the wolves all simultaneously turned into worms, wriggling upon the ground.

"Come on, Albus! Is that all you can do?" He taunted.

Gritting his teeth, Albus stabbed his wand into the air and with a whispered incantation, and called down a lightning bolt. Grindelwald responded by putting up a dome-like shield around himself, far stronger than anything Albus could hope to produce.

"Do you see it now, _mein Freund_? Do you see the power of the Elder Wand?"

Albus' response was to transfigure the destroyed front gate into a pile of swords, which launched themselves like bullets at his opponent. The Dark Lord moved forward, casually throwing up a shield which didn't even shimmer when the weapons struck it. The Hogwarts professor levelled his wand and shot off his strongest Blasting hex, with enough power behind it to topple an entire building.

Grindelwald didn't even break his stride.

The Dark Lord fixed a stern gaze upon his opponent. "You will die if you do not fight me seriously, Albus."

Albus narrowed his eyes. He knew that his former-friend hadn't even gotten serious yet, which was probably the only reason he was still alive.

 _There is no other choice. Too much is at stake here for my pride to get in my way. . . ._

With a resigned sigh, Albus cut his own palm and dipped the tip of his wand into it. He then proceeded to thrust it into the ground, turning his wrist as though he were opening a lock.

The ground shook violently as a large crimson flame burst forth and sped towards the Dark Lord, who once again threw a shield. This time, though, the shield flickered violently upon impact. Without even wasting a second, Albus waved his bleeding hand in the air, allowing droplets of blood to fly; then with a wave of his wand, he turned the droplets into red jeweled daggers, which shot off like missiles.

Grindelwald poured more power into his shield as each of the daggers impacted his barrier with the force of a grenade. While most of the damage was absorbed, the last dagger tore through the remnants of the shield and headed straight at the Dark Lord's head. . .

. . . who proceeded to side-step just in time for it to miss him, leaving a shallow cut across his cheek.

Grindelwald reached out to feel the cut and licked his own blood off his fingers. "At last," he whispered. "At last you have decided to stop playing, Albus."

He raised his wand. "And now, _mein Freund_ , we duel for real!"

* * *

The two magical giants clashed on the battlefield of Nurmengard, their very surroundings bending to their will as they fought relentlessly against each other's powers.

In a few hours Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald exchanged spells that entire generations had never even heard of, displaying a level of power that warped the very air around them. Dark curses and forbidden magic flowed freely from the tips of their wands,

Grindelwald waved his wand and a dozen golems rose from the ground, before shifting their shape to become identical copies of him. Albus retaliated with his signature Fire Whip, a borderline Dark spell in most nations, sweeping it across the field to neatly slice the duplicates into two.

Then Albus raised his wand into the air and waved it in circles, causing the earth around the Dark Lord to move upwards and encase him in a dome. He then performed a complex bit of Transfiguration, drastically increasing the concentration of hydrogen and oxygen in the air within the dome, before igniting the mixture.

The resulting explosion shook the very walls of the fortress.

"Impressive." Albus suppressed a groan when he saw his opponent encased in a cocoon-like shield, completely unharmed. "So this is the skill of Hogwarts' famous Transfiguration professor. Very impressive, indeed!"

"Thank you for your kind words," Albus said politely. Just because he was fighting for his life against a vile opponent didn't mean he had to be rude.

"However, I confess I am still disappointed." Grindelwald shot off a volley of Dark curses. "I thought you were finally fighting me seriously, Albus."

"You will forgive me," Albus said as he dodged and deflected, "if I find it difficult to meet your expectations. I simply abhor the very prospect of sinking to your level, Gellert."

"Oh I never deluded myself into believing that you could ever be my equal, _mein Freund_ ," Grindelwald laughed. "No, I just find it difficult to understand why you are being so foolish."

"If you would be so kind as to elucidate," Albus muttered, firing off conjured bolts of flame from his wand.

Grindelwald put a shield, allowing the bolts of flame to splash harmlessly off them. "You do not seek to kill me, Albus," he narrowed his eyes. "Why is that? And please, for the love of magic, do not tell me you are _above_ such brutality! We both know my followers corpses are a testament to the contrary."

"We both know that there are other ways of destroying a man, Gellert," Dumbledore said calmly. "Merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit. . . ."

"Is that so?" Grindelwald sneered, hurling large gobs of acid at his opponent. "Or were you hoping that I would help you shed light upon one of your greatest quandaries, Albus?"

Albus threw up a shield and frowned. What was he. . . ?

"Tell me, Albus. Did you ever manage to deduce which one of us killed poor Ariana?"

Albus felt his blood boil. _How **dare** he!?_

He hissed in pain as a deep gash was cut into his arm. Absently conjuring a bandage, he ruthlessly reinforced his occlumency shields.

 _He is trying to provoke me into doing something rash. I must_ _ **not**_ _lose focus!_

"Would you like to know, Albus? I could tell you, _mein Freund_. I could tell you _exactly_ which one of us cast the curse that took your poor sister's life," Grindelwald taunted.

Albus merely shook his head in sorrow. To think that his former friend had fallen so low as to use the tragic death of an innocent child to gain an advantage in battle.

 _How the mighty have fallen. . ._

"Or perhaps you truly do not care anymore. You have spent so much time with your crooked nose buried in dusty old tomes that you no longer care about your _kleine Schwester_ , and the tragedy that was her life."

Albus' grip on his wand tightened. His knuckled were practically white from barely suppressed rage.

"Then again, I should not be surprised. You did not care for her when she was alive, so why should you. . . ."

Albus finally lost his patience.

With a scream of fury, he fired off his strongest Inferno charm, a massive fireball erupting from the tip of his wand. At the same time he slashed his wand diagonally twice, sending eight conjured daggers spinning at his opponent from the sides. He then proceeded to jerk back his wand like a whip and the earth behind Grindelwald shot towards his exposed back, jagged edges of rock heading straight for his heart.

The three-way attack was one of the deadliest tactics in duelling. With attacks coming in from three separate directions, the opponent had no way to defend, especially if they were fighting in an area with powerful anti-apparition and portkey wards like this one. Grindelwald had nowhere to run now.

Or so Albus thought, anyway.

With a flick of his wand, the ground beneath the Dark Lord rose upwards, carrying him up into the air. The platform climbed a good hundred feet, a grinning Gellert Grindelwald looking down on his opponent.

" _Ausgezeichnet, mein Freund!_ However. . . ."

He jumped off the platform. "It is simply not enough to defeat _me_!"

While still falling, Grindelwald launched a barrage of spells at Albus, who threw up a dome-like shield around himself. The curses rained down all around him, punching deep craters into the ground.

But the Dark Lord wasn't done yet. Hurtling towards the ground at a high speed, he raised the tip of his wand and stabbed it downwards. Albus cast a weak Banishing charm at his feet and propelled himself away from the targeted area. . .

. . . and not a moment too soon.

A powerful explosion ripped through the floor where Grindelwald landed a moment ago. The battlefield itself was torn asunder as long fissures of eldritch flame opened up on the ground; the shockwave hit Albus as he flew through the air, a scream of pain erupting from his mouth as he crashed headlong into the earth.

A few disorienting seconds later, Albus sat up with a groan. He blinked rapidly through the dust, eyes straining to see his opponent. The air slowly cleared and Grindelwald came into view, causing Albus' eyes to widen in shock.

The Dark Lord stood in the center of a huge crater, his eyes closed and arms spread outward, a serene expression on his face. The eldritch flames danced all around him, his barely leashed aura flaring brightly.

"You have no idea what it is like, Albus," he intoned. "This power. . . it is _such_ a magnificent feeling. _Es ist so erstaunlich ist!_ You cannot even _begin_ to imagine."

He opened his eyes and glared balefully at his opponent. "I am the wielder of the Wand of Destiny, Albus! You cannot _hope_ to defeat me. Surrender now, _mein Freund_ , and I shall grant you the boon of a painless death."

Albus really couldn't help himself. He chuckled softly.

"And what, pray tell, is so amusing about all this?" Grindelwald narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, nothing Gellert, it's just. . ." Albus shook his head in mirth. "You always did have a flair for the dramatics. I would have thought that reaching middle-age would have cured you of your youthful tendencies. Evidently, I was wrong."

Grindelwald hissed in indignation. "You dare. . !?"

"I do, actually. Now, if you will excuse me I would like to be done with this tediousness before the day is up." Albus stood and dusted off his robes, smiling sardonically at his former friend. "I daresay I have kept my students, and my overdue promotion, waiting for too long. Shall we finish this now?"

He smiled brightly at the seething expression on his nemesis' face. The Dark Lord looked like he was about to pop a blood vessel, before he took a deep breath and regained control of himself.

"Very well, _mein Freund_. If that is what you want. . . . let us finish this now."

And he raised his wand waving it elegantly through the air, like a conductor guiding an orchestra.

Nothing happened for a few seconds, and Albus tensed. What did he just. . . ?

A low moan reached his ears, and he spun around.

The corpses of Grindelwald's personal guard slowly rose to their feet, moaning and groaning loudly.

 _Inferi! But that would mean. . ._

A sickening sensation grew in the pit of Albus' stomach. "Gellert, what have you done?"

"Why, Albus. . . whatever do you mean?" The Dark Lord grinned wickedly.

"You planned for this," Albus said quietly. "You sent those men here knowing full well that I would kill them. You planned on turning them to Inferi from the very beginning, didn't you?"

Grindelwald merely shrugged. "Guilty as charged."

"You monster!" Albus exploded. "You sent those _children_ to their deaths simply so that you would have another resource to draw upon in battle. How could you. . . ?"

"It is called _Strategie_ , Albus," Grindelwald drawled. "Chess never was your strong point, was it? You have to learn to plan several moves ahead; it is how you win wars!"

Albus slowly backed away from the inferi ambling towards them. "They were your men, Gellert! Your followers!"

"And they serve me in death, as they served me in life."

Albus sent a fireball at the nearest inferius. The creature shrieked and, to his surprise, continued to amble towards him. His eyes widened in shock.

"Oh, did I mention that I had them ingest a specially-made flame-freezing potion before I sent them out?" Grindelwald grinned nastily. " _Entschuldigungen!_ I forgot."

Albus snarled in anger before obliterating the nearest inferius with a well-placed Reductor curse. He was about to follow up with another one when a sharp pain shot up his leg.

He winced and looked down to see a large scorpion, the size of his foot, stinging him repeatedly.

"Tut, tut, Albus. . . power isn't everything in a fight, _nicht wahr_? There is something called situational awareness as well."

Albus gritted his teeth before reducing the arachnid to dust. He then turned back to the horde of inferi, who were almost on top of him now. He could feel the poison spreading through his leg and quickly downed an antidote before proceeding to blast the creatures again.

But the pain wasn't slowing down. . . it was spreading!

Grindelwald laughed loudly. "Oh this is splendid. _Das ist ein Wort_! Really Albus, did you think that any of _my_ poisons could be counteracted with a regular antidote? Oh no, _mein_ _gute Freund!_ This is a poison I made especially for you. It is extremely corrosive in nature, and extremely slow-acting, and do you know the best part?" His eyes lit up with malicious glee. "The more magic you use, the _worse_ it spreads! Brilliant, no?"

Albus gritted his teeth, fighting against the excruciating pain as he cast spell after spell at the inferi. But there were too many of them, and his strength was waning, his vision growing dull.

"So ends the legend of Albus Dumbledore, the Hero of the People," Grindelwald mocked. "Alone in battle, forsaken by his allies, defeated by the very wizard he so unwisely challenged, whose friendship he so foolishly spurned. . . fear not Albus, you will be with Ariana soon. . ."

Albus struggled valiantly against the corpses, the pain overwhelming all his senses. He punched, kicked and thrashed violently against the onslaught of limbs as they pulled him down towards the ground.

 _Let the pain stop,_ a small voice in his head said. _Give up Albus, you have done your best. Lay down your arms now. Accept the embrace of death. . . ._

 _. . . and I can see Ariana again. . . ._

And as his heart filled with emotion, a light shone through his eyelids.

A massive fireball appeared above him in a spectacular explosion, the sheer heat of the flames turning all the surrounding inferi to ash. A wave of pure heat washed across the battlefield, and even the Dark Lord was forced to throw up a shield to protect himself.

A beautiful song filled the air, its haunting melody filling Albus' very bones with strength. He glanced up blearily and his jaw dropped at the beautiful swan-like bird flying gracefully through the air.

 _Is that. . . a phoenix!?_

The magnificent creature landed on the ground and dipped its exquisite head over Albus' steadily rotting leg. A few tears fell from its beady eyes, and almost immediately the wound began to heal. Albus blinked in shock as his vision cleared, and his strength returned.

The creature then lifted his head and looked straight into his eyes, and Albus' mind was assaulted by vivid images. And through the haze of those thoughts a simple word rang loudly. . . . an order, a command. . .

 _FIGHT!_

With a roar of rage Albus Dumbledore got to his feet, thrusting out his wand towards his opponent. Grindelwald barely had time to blink before a tidal wave of raw magical energy crashed into him, shattering his shield and sending him flying a good twenty feet.

The Dark Lord groaned as he sat up, and blinked at the sight before him. His jaw dropped.

Albus Dumbledore stood majestically in the middle of the battlefield; his face set, his eyes hard, the phoenix proudly perched on his shoulder. His magical aura, multiplied ten-fold, was sweeping through the darkness. The halo of pure golden energy surrounding him made him stand out like a lighthouse in a sea of blackness. . .

And for the first time in his life, Gellert Grindelwald knew true fear.

* * *

The Dark Lord Grindelwald snarled in anger as he batted away another curse. He was coming perilously close to defeat.

Until now he had enjoyed the advantage of the Elder Wand's abilities, but with the phoenix's arrival the tables had been turned.

He glanced at his opponent, who was firing off hexes and curses with a renewed vigour. Somehow the phoenix's incessant singing was giving Albus strength, amplifying the usual power behind his spells and rendering his infamous Deathstick all but useless.

He'd even tried flinging a few spells at the blasted bird, but the _dummes huhn_ was so graceful in the air that none of them came within a few feet of it. His enemy's relentless attacks didn't help, either.

Grindelwald had always suspected, nay _believed_ , that between the two of them Albus was the more skilled wizard. It was why he'd searched so obsessively for the Wand of Destiny, hoping to use its power to cover his own shortcomings.

But it all came to naught in the end. With that blasted avian's assistance, Albus was easily able to keep up with him. While the British wizard's spells were still a bit short of the Elder Wand's in terms of power, his ingenuity and knowledge of Battle Transfiguration more than made up for it.

To make matters worse, Grindelwald could feel himself slowly tiring. He had never been particularly adept at creating inferi, and reanimating so many corpses in the span of a few minutes had taken a great deal out of him.

He had to end this battle soon.

Dodging a particularly vicious cutting curse, Grindelwald fired off one of his own and began the mental chant for the Fiendfyre spell.

It took an immense amount of mental discipline and physical dexterity to incant one spell inwardly while firing off a dozen hexes outwards. Fortunately, Gellert Grindelwald had both.

He quickly threw up a stone barrier around himself, twenty feet wide. As Albus made to take down the incredibly thick wall, the Dark Lord performed the necessary wand movements and finished the chant for Fiendfyre.

With a scream of fury he thrust his wand into the sky. Enormous quantities of eldritch flame poured forth from the Elder Wand, twisting and turning like a living creature.

Grindelwald then concentrated, and waved his wand in an intricate movement, pouring more of his energy into the flames. The reddish-black flames shuddered violently, before coalescing together to form an gigantic dragon. The beast composed entirely of Fiendfyre gave a mighty roar that shook Fortress Nurmengard to its foundations.

Grindelwald grinned wickedly at the stupefied expression on his opponent's face, and then thrust his wand forwards with a single command. " _Inpugnatio!_ "

* * *

Albus knew he was in trouble the second Grindelwald threw up that barrier. Cursing himself for letting his opponent cut off his line of sight, he launched a volley of Blasting hexes at the wall.

Only to find out he was too late. . . .

As a rule, Albus rarely allowed fear to get the better of him (he _was_ a Gryffindor, after all). But the sight of the thirty feet tall dragon made of Fiendfyre was enough to cause him to lose his composure for a second.

But only for a second. The very next moment he was running through a hundred different possible counter-attacks in his head. Unfortunately for him, each seemed worse than the last.

Once again, the phoenix came to his rescue.

It sang a song of courage and resilience, its melody bolstering his magic. Then another image flashed in his mind.

A memory. A distant memory of him perusing tomes from Nicholas Flamel's private library. An ancient spell rumoured to be the antithesis of Fiendfyre; a spell of such enormous power that it had taken the combined efforts of the formidable Flamel couple to cast it even once.

Could Albus cast it now? By himself? It would be a herculean effort for him to attempt something like that alone. . . .

The phoenix cried again.

 _You are not alone!_

Albus closed his eyes and allowed the song to seep into his very bones. Feeling his own aura fill to the brim, he waved his wand in an intricate pattern, just as the Dark Lord rallied his beast to attack.

" _Omnia vertit ad cinerem!_ " He chanted and thrust his own wand outwards.

Powerful flames exploded from the tip of his wand, not red and black like the Fiendfyre, but bright yellow and gold. The brilliant flames rose high into the air, before shifting its shape into that of a colossal phoenix. The thirty-feet tall phoenix spread its vast wings and bellowed a cry of fury before rushing forth to meet its nemesis.

Dragon and Phoenix clashed headlong in a battle of epic proportions.

* * *

It was like the sun itself had descended upon the battlefield of Nurmengard.

The two ancient avatars of fire grappled with each other, a primal battle of dominance between sentient magic that seemed to warp reality itself. A shockwave of pure heat swept through the area, turning all surrounding flora into ash. The moisture disappeared completely from the air, turning it dry and stale. The nearby walls of the once insurmountable Fortress Nurmengard began to melt from the sheer heat of the flames.

And in the midst of all this stood the two strongest wizards of their age, unyielding even in the face of such primordial power. Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald threw every last bit of energy they had into the flames, neither of the titans willing to give the other an inch.

Albus gripped his wand tightly with both hands as it bucked and struggled like a wild hippogriff. He kept his eyes forward, staring right into the practically blinding ball of heat. He could feel the moisture evaporate from his skin, his eyeballs felt dry, the inside of his mouth felt like a desert. . . . but he held on.

He had to.

Slowly, inexplicably the eldritch flames began to wane, and Albus allowed himself a glimmer of hope. He gripped his wand tighter and pushed himself forward physically, willing his flames of light to fight harder.

The Fiendfyre was shuddering openly now. He could do it. Just a bit more. . . .

Then without warning, a jagged black spear shot through the ball of flames, straight at him.

Albus had no time to react before the spear flew straight towards his heart.

* * *

Grindelwald knew the moment Albus had conjured that massive phoenix that he had lost this duel.

The dragon of Fiendfyre had been his trump card, a move specially designed to win the most unwinnable of duels. For Albus Dumbledore to counter it with some completely unknown Light spell. . . .

He had no idea what to think about that.

But not for nothing was Gellert Grindelwald a Dark Lord. He hadn't gotten to where he was by playing fair.

He gritted his teeth as the wood of the Elder Wand grew hot under his fingers. He had to think of something fast. . . .

And then it came to him. So simple, and so brilliant!

Slowly, as to not arouse suspicion from his enemy, he relinquished control over the Fiendfyre. Then, with lightning reflexes, he conjured a black spear and launched it at his opponent.

Through the hazy shimmering air, he watched his weapon fly towards his enemy's chest; he savoured the feeling of Albus Dumbledore's eyes widening in surprise, knowing full well he had no time to react. . .

. . . and then watched him disappear.

The Dark Lord was so shocked that he barely had time to put up a shield before the two wild flames exploded together, both their casters having relinquished control near simultaneously. He watched the Fiendfyre and that strange flame dissipate slowly, while he looked around frantically for his opponent.

This was impossible! Even Grindelwald himself couldn't apparate or portkey in the grounds of Nurmengard! So how did he. . . ?

Then he felt a huge flash of flame erupt behind him.

He whipped around, wand at the ready, and saw Albus Dumbledore leaping towards him with his signature Fire-Whip.

 _Ich bin ein Narr! Phoenixes can travel **through** wards!_

Grindelwald dived to the side to avoid the fiery rope, belatedly realising that it wasn't his chest Albus was aiming for.

He felt the whip of fire wrap around his arm, and a pain-filled scream burst from his mouth as his wand arm was neatly severed at the elbow.

Shrieking in agony, he fell to the ground.

* * *

For the first time in his life, Albus was well and truly flummoxed.

One moment he had been staring at the tip of a spear about to embed itself into his chest. . .

. . . . and the next moment he was wrapped in some kind of a cocoon of flame.

It was one of the strangest sensations he'd ever experienced. He was marginally aware of a pair of claws digging themselves into his left shoulder, but beyond that he had no sense of anything. Time, space. . . it was like he was briefly cut-off from reality itself. Nothing but gentle, warm flames surrounded him; a most peculiar, but strangely calming sensation.

And as soon as it began, it was over. Albus felt himself appear mid-air in a flash of flame right behind his opponent, and reacted on pure instinct.

The next thing he knew he was standing on the ground, beside the wailing form of his former friend. Albus breathed deeply, his brain barely registering the sight before his eyes.

Gellert Grindelwald was writhing on the ground. . . .

His arm, and his wand, were lying a few feet away. . .

It was over. . .

 ** _He had won!_**

Albus panted like a man who had just run a marathon. He couldn't believe it. It was over! The War was over! Against all odds, he had actually succeeded! He. . .

"Do. . . . it."

Albus blinked in surprise and turned his attention to the wizard lying at his feet.

"I said. . . do it, you _Hurensohn_!"

"Do what, Gellert?"

"Finish it," the Dark Lord's voice trembled. "Or are you too much of a coward?"

"I never meant to take your life, Gellert," Albus said seriously.

" _Warum nicht_? You have taken everything from me! Everything!" Grindelwald's voice grew slightly stronger. "You have _destroyed_ my dreams! You laid waste to my army, my home. . . you even took the Elder Wand from me, Albus! And it is still not enough!? What more do you want, Albus?" He was practically hysterical now. "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?"

"I wish to give you a chance to atone for your sins, Gellert," Albus said sternly. "An opportunity to truly repent, which is _far_ more than you deserve."

" _Es ist alles erlogen_! Tell me what you really want!" His eyes darted from side to side, a mad look on his face. "You wish to know who killed Ariana, don't you? Well, I cannot tell you because I _do not know_ myself. _Da bin ich mir nicht so sicher_! I. . ."

"I already know who killed her, Gellert. I have always known. It was me."

" _Was?_ What are you. . ?"

"I killed her," Albus felt his voice break slightly. "The moment I turned my back on her for the sake of your. . . _our_ twisted ambitions, I condemned her to a;ife worse than death. It does not matter which of us cast the curse in the end, for I shall always hold myself responsible."

"Thus it is my burden to bear. . . one that I shall carry until the end of my days." He looked down at the broken man lying at his feet in utter contempt. "Just like _you_ will carry the burden of _your_ sins for the rest of yours."

And he fired off his strongest Stunner straight into Gellert Grindelwald face, watching him crumple to the ground with a small sense of satisfaction.

* * *

Albus had no idea how long he sat on the ground next to the unconscious form of the Dark Lord. He was so tired, so very exhausted that he did not even notice his team run through the gates, calling out to him.

"Albus! Albus! _Tu vas bien_? Albus, can you hear me. . . ?"

He blearily looked up to the wizard shaking his shoulders hard, shouting something incomprehensible.

"Water," he croaked, his throat parched from thirst.

More shouting. A bottle of water was pressed to his mouth, and he drank greedily. Then the lead wizard pressed some vials to his mouth, forcing him to down various potions.

After the sixth potion went down his throat, he coughed and his vision cleared. Albus found himself staring into the sharp grey eyes of his mentor, Nicholas Flamel.

"Albus, are you alright?"

"Better. . . now, Nicholas," he smiled weakly. "Thank you."

"By the Ancestors!" one of the Italian aurors gasped. "Is Gellert Grindelwald still alive?"

"He is," Albus confirmed.

"You kept him _alive_!? _Cosa stavi pensando_ , Dumbledore? The man deserves to die!"

" _Non,_ Bruno," Nicholas said sharply. "We will take him into custody! Aurors. . ."

" _Ma sei pazzo!?"_ Bruno Amadori exclaimed. "This man is responsible for the death of thousands of my countrymen, and yours as well! I say we should kill him. . ."

" _Ça suffit!"_ Nicholas thundered. " _I_ am in charge of this operation and I say. . ."

" _Non dire sciocchezze!_ Our orders are to take him dead or alive. I say we blow his head off and report. . . ."

"Bruno, please," Albus said. "This man needs to answer for his crimes." He placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Please, my friend. There has been enough death tonight."

The Senior Auror visibly deflated. "As you say, Signore Dumbledore." He cast a hateful look at the fallen Dark Lord before conjuring thick ropes to bind him. At his signal the rest of the team spread out, some going into the fortress to round up the remaining of Grindelwald's supporters.

Albus smiled at him gratefully and walked towards his mentor, who was examining something on the ground.

"Albus, I need to ask you something."

"Yes, Nicholas?"

He pointed at the wand still held in the severed hand. "Did you do this?"

Albus hesitated a moment before answering. "Yes. . . yes, I did. I am not proud. . ."

But Nicholas merely silenced him with a wave of his hand. Looking around to ensure everybody else was busy fitting the specially-made manacles on Gellert Grindelwald, he vanished the severed hand and picked up the wand.

"Albus, here." He pressed it into the British wizard's hand.

"Nicholas, what are you. . . ?"

"Albus, _mon cher,_ we both know what this wand really is." Albus' eyes widened slightly. "I am among the few in the French Ministry who know of its existence, and I can tell you that whatever secret records pertaining to it we, and the German Ministry, had were completely destroyed by Grindelwald's men long ago. The both of us, and the Dark Lord, are without a doubt the only men in all of Europe who know what this wand _really_ is, and it is better it stays that way."

"But. . . but this is _evidence_. . !"

"Let _me_ worry about the evidence, _mon cher_ ," Nicholas said grimly. "I will see to it that the reports are taken care of, and I am sure Grindelwald can be. . . _persuaded_ to keep his silence. In the meantime, you must take the wand."

"Nicholas, please," Albus begged. "You do not understand! I cannot. . ."

"I understand _enough_ , Albus! I understand that you do not trust yourself with power, but this is not the time or place for that discussion," Nicholas said sharply. "You defeated its wielder, so you are now the master of the Elder Wand. Just take it, Albus!"

With a resigned sigh, Albus quickly pocketed the wand. He looked around to see the others walking up to them.

" _Commandant_ Flamel, Monsieur Dumbledore, we 'ave swept ze area and. . . _mon dieu_!"

Everyone looked up at the auror's exclamation as the phoenix flew above their heads and came to land on Albus' shoulder.

"Is that. . . a phoenix?" Bruno whispered.

"Yes," Albus admitted.

" _Merde_!" Nicholas whispered. "In all my years I have never been fortunate enough to see one up so close. Where did it come from, Albus?"

"He just appeared on his own. I think he is from Hogwarts." Albus blinked in surprise as he wondered how he could have known that. He cast a suspicious glance at the rather smug-looking bird sitting on his shoulder.

"You mean he came to you on his own?" Bruno exclaimed. " _Magnifico_!"

Albus fidgeted slightly at the borderline reverential looks everyone was shooting him. He could imagine what their thoughts were, seeing him stand with a phoenix on his shoulders after defeating the Dark Lord in his own home.

The immortal bird in question preened itself and trilled happily. Albus glared slightly at the shameless exhibitionist.

 _At least one of us is enjoying this. . ._

Nicholas seemed to be having similar thoughts as he smiled and held out a small golden coin. "Here, this will help you get past our family wards. Go and rest, Albus."

"But. . ."

"Albus, you just fought the most dangerous battle of your life. You need to rest. Go back to the manor and relax a little, get your wounds treated. Perenelle is worried sick about you."

"He is right, Signore Dumbledore," Bruno Amadori grinned. "In a few hours every single Ministry bureaucrat and _figlio di puttana_ politician in Europe will be wanting to shake your hand. Best recover your strength before you have to deal with those _cazzi!"_

"Indeed, Monsieur," another French auror spoke up. "You 'ave done your part, now let us do ze rest."

"Very well," Albus agreed. "But to get a portkey now. . ."

"Oh, Albus, you don't _need_ a portkey," Nicholas laughed. "Your friend can easily get you there."

"We are in Germany," Albus reminded him.

"Not a problem, _mon cher!_ They are capable of travelling great distances."

Albus looked at his newest friend doubtfully. "What do you think? Can you do it?"

The phoenix trilled in agreement.

Albus Dumbeldore gripped his coin tightly and vanished in a huge flash of flame, leaving behind awestruck witnesses to a story that would go on to become legend.

* * *

 **AN: Given how much Canon harps about the 'legendary duel' between Dumbledore and Grindelwald, I decided to make it as awesome as I could. Both Dumbles and Grindelwald are badasses in their own way, with Dumbles being marginally better.  
**

 **I mean, come on, this is the guy Lord ' _everyone's scared of saying my name_ ' Voldemort is afraid of. Of course, he's going to be a BAMF! **

**I originally intended this fic to be anti-Dumbledore, but I've read so many Dumbledore-bashing fics lately that I just _had_ to try something new.**

 **So I decided to write Dumbledore as I see him: a good man trying to do the right thing in a world that is apathetic at best, and violently bigoted at worst. He's a scholar who wanted nothing more than to simply teach at his beloved school, but is forced to go to war because, 'with great power comes great responsibility' and all that.**

 **Further chapters on Dumbles will show how he goes from being an idealistic professor to the ultimate chessmaster who can give even Voldy a run for his money.  
**

 **Special thanks to Autmngold and MyEdwardJacob for their reviews.**

 **Next up: Harry pays a visit to Percy's apartment. Meanwhile, preparations for Amelia's coup against Fudge are coming to a head.**

 **Stay tuned!  
**


	20. The Storm Cometh

**AN: Continued from chapter 18.**

* * *

"Potter!" Percy snarled, and plunged his hand into his robes.

He then drew out a small purse and threw it straight into the Boy-Who-Lived's face.

The emerald-eyed teenager snatched it out of the air. "What's this?"

"Your winnings," Percy said sourly.

"Oho," Harry said happily, checking the purse full of gold coins with a huge grin on his face. "Oho!"

Percy grimaced slightly. While it was true that between him and Penelope they did not lack for anything, thirty galleons was still a lot of money.

"So, Fudge decided to bury the whole thing, huh?" Harry asked.

"The fool didn't even hesitate for _five minutes_ , Harry. He simply brought up the whole Official Secrets Act and ordered me to never mention it again." Percy shook his head in wonder. "How in the name of Merlin did you know he was going to do that for sure?"

"You forgot that I've dealt with the plonker before. I actually saw him try to give Sirius the Kiss despite the Head of the DMLE and the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot both telling him that Padfoot was innocent, _simply_ because he didn't want to deal with a little bit of trouble from the press." Harry grinned at him. "C'mon Perce, you of all people should know what he's like. You worked for the bloke for a whole year!"

Percy sighed wearily. "I know. Still, I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt because I assumed even _he_ could not possibly do anything as moronic as covering up the deaths of the most notorious Death Eaters in Azkaban without so much as a token investigation. Shows what _I_ know!"

"Never underestimate the power of human stupidity, my dear Weatherby," the Boy-Who-Lived said sagely.

"Indeed. And please stop calling me that." Percy made his way to the kitchen counter and started preparing a pot of tea. "You know, you're lucky that Penny is late tonight, Harry. I'd hate to have to explain our little conspiracy to her."

"Luck has nothing to with it," Harry muttered.

Percy turned to glare suspiciously at the teenager. "What did you do?"

"Who me? Nothing," Harry said with an innocent expression. "Why do you always assume I did something?"

" _What_ did you do?" Percy repeated. Years spent dealing with the Twins had taught him not to fall for such looks.

Harry fidgeted slightly under his gaze. "Well, I'm not saying I know anything, mind you. But Sirius _might_ have visited the Ministry in the evening. . . . and he _might_ have jinxed the memos as a prank. . ."

Percy resisted the urge to groan. Penelope worked in the Central Administration, which meant that her workplace was most probably swimming with those stupid flying memos right now.

"What? You're the one who said you had something important to tell me," Harry said defensively. "I just thought it'd be more convenient if your girlfriend wasn't here."

"Very well," Percy sighed. "But in the future, please try not to ruin my love life in the process."

"Yeah, yeah. Now moving on. . ."

"Of course. But first," Percy handed him a mug of tea and raised his own in a toast. "To a job well done, Boss."

"Cheers," Harry smiled.

They both drank deeply of the hot beverage. Then Percy smacked his lips together and started pulling out a few folders from his bag.

"Amos Diggory dropped this on my desk two days ago. You should take a look."

He unfurled a large roll of parchment over the table. On it was a detailed map of the continent of Europe, with dots of various colors spread all over it.

"What am I looking at?" Harry asked.

"One of the responsibilities of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is to keep an eye on the Dark Creature population of Europe as a whole, and report any suspicious activities to the DMLE. Now, on this map here," Percy gestured at the parchment, "the red dots are the known Vampire clans, the yellow dots are the infamous Werewolf packs, and the blue dots are the Giant camps. Now watch this."

He tapped the map lightly with his wand. Slowly, the stationary dots began to move towards the west.

"This has been recorded over the last six months," he said quietly.

"I'm guessing these aren't standard migratory patterns," Harry said dryly.

"Quite right, Percy nodded. "While the werewolves are known to migrate during the winter months, the other clans, especially the vampires, almost never leave their homes. At least not like this."

"So, I made some more inquiries. I've still got some contacts left in the Department of International Magical Co-operation," Percy shuffled through his stack of papers. "Now another thing you should know is that our DIMC is obligated to share details with the foreign embassies of any suspected threats or strange reports like this one."

"Which obviously isn't happening since the current head is one of Fudge's toadies," Harry stated.

"Quite. Anyways, I got in touch with our counterparts in the French Ministry. . ."

"You didn't give them your name, did you?"

"Of course not," Percy was indignant. "I'm not an idiot, Harry!"

"Then who. . ?"

"Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic," Percy said smugly.

The Boy-Who-Lived stared at him in shock before bursting into laughter. "Oh, that is rich!" He howled. "You made it look like the inquiry was coming from Fudge's office!"

Percy smirked and pushed his glasses up his nose. "What can I say? Fred and George aren't the only pranksters in our family."

"Oh. . . I know that now." Harry wiped his tears of mirth away. "So, what did you find out?"

He pulled out a document with a flourish. "See for yourself."

Harry quickly skimmed through the proffered folder. His eyes widened slightly. "It's the same thing. . . and wait, what's this?"

"They're already in France right now," Percy said grimly. "But they're not staying there. They're continuing to move towards the west."

"Voldemort," Harry said quietly. "He's bringing them here. To Britain."

Percy resisted the urge to shudder. "It seems so."

"Are we sure this report is accurate?" the Boy-Who-Lived shot him a piercing look.

"Check the signature on the last page," Percy suggested.

Harry did and smiled slightly. "It's Fleur's father."

"I encrypted the letter as per your instructions. Monsieur Delacour probably deduced that it was coming from you."

"Good idea," Harry nodded approvingly. Then he exhaled loudly. "At least we know now what the Snake-faced wanker has been up to since the last year. Have to hand it to him, making so much progress in just a few months."

"Well, he _is_ a Dark Lord," Percy said sardonically. "He's got quite a following outside of Britain as well; and I expect he's playing up the ' _even death cannot stop me_ ' card as much as he can."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "So, how's things at the Ministry?"

"Bad," Percy said grimly. "Fudge's people have been working hard to cover up any and all signs of unusual happenings since the last year. They're practically obsessed with denying You-know-who's return." He snorted. "They couldn't be helping him more if they were actually his followers."

"How many of Voldemort followers are there in Fudge's administration, anyway?"

Percy thought for a few seconds. "Followers, few. Sympathizers, plenty. While many of them may not enjoy the bloodshed that You-know-who brings, a lot of them simply don't care as long as he sticks to murdering and torturing muggleborns." He shook his head. "Sometimes I think the latter are worse than the former."

"Well said," Harry nodded.

"Speaking of which, I have another message for you. Amelia informed me that all her preparations were complete and that she was ready to move whenever you are." Percy looked at him meaningfully.

"Excellent, excellent. Tell her," he scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Tell her to get ready to move in the next few months. Around. . . Halloween, give or take a week."

"Alright. But why Halloween in particular?"

"Call it a. . . premonition, if you will," Harry said slowly. "But I have a feeling that Voldemort's going to pull something this Halloween."

"You actually think he's going to reveal himself?" Percy was surprised.

"Hard to say. He may or may not choose to stay hidden, but whatever he does will be big. He's got one heck of a flair for dramatics, after all." Harry scowled. "Besides, he lost his power on Halloween, didn't he? What better way to announce his comeback by revealing himself on the same day fifteen years later?"

"That. . . actually makes a lot of sense. Terrifyingly so," Percy said. "But what if he doesn't reveal himself?"

"Then we go on as planned regardless," Harry said simply. "No point in sitting around and twiddling our thumbs. It's past time for Fudge and his toadies to get their dues."

"So one way or another Fudge will be out by Halloween," Percy sighed. "Thank Merlin for that!"

"You know what that means, don't you?" Harry asked him shrewdly.

"What?"

"You won't have to keep up the act anymore. You can finally come clean with your family."

Percy's heart gave a small jump at the mention of them. "I-I know."

Truth be told, that had been the first thing to cross his mind when Bones had spoken to him in the morning. The chance to be reunited with his parents, his brothers and sister. . . . to apologize for everything he'd put them through, to reassure them that he'd always been on their side; it was something he'd been waiting for since the beginning.

Most people always underestimated Percy Weasley. Most people always assumed that he'd gotten his Head Boy position because of his family's allegiance to Dumbledore. . . .

Most people, as Harry once eloquently put it, were fools.

After all, could a brown-nosing teacher's pet really have been able to pull off _half_ the things he did?

In his initial days at the Ministry, Percy had noticed a great many unusual things about their government. Under the guise of the eager-to-please Hogwarts graduate, he had slowly mapped out the politics within the place, and found something rather startling.

There was a conspiracy being hatched against Harry Potter.

It was never said out aloud, but Percy could feel the tension whenever Harry was even mentioned around the Senior Management. He soon discovered that Cornelius Fudge and his cronies had been nursing a small grudge against the Boy-Who-Lived.

There were a number of factors involved: Dumbledore's firm refusal to allow the Ministry to exploit the Boy-Who-Lived's image for publicity, Harry Potter's own reluctance to be involved in politics, the negative backlash the Ministry received when Sirius Black's innocence came to light, Lord Black's open snubbing of Fudge and his supporters, his refusal to support every silly bill that was introduced in the Wizengamot simply to line up the Minister's pockets. . .

All of this served to deepen the wounds on Cornelius Fudge's ego.

Percy had been shocked to find out that Fudge's supporters were actually trying to pin the blame on the Goblet of Fire fiasco on the Boy-Who-Lived, despite the fact that he was the _victim_ in the whole thing. The fools had actually convinced themselves that Harry had entered his name into the goblet (in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary) and was causing trouble just for the hell of it.

Percy had, of course, hastened to alert Harry immediately. When the newly appointed head of the DIMC had foisted the tournament responsibilities on his shoulders (unsurprising, since incompetence was a prerequisite to being one of Cornelius Fudge's men), Percy had used that position to help Harry as much as he could.

But still it wasn't enough.

Percy was smart enough to know that whatever help he could provide Harry would be only temporary. Sooner or later, the Boy-Who-Lived would do something that would cause Fudge to blow his top completely, and then he'd start persecuting him the same way he did all his political opponents.

There was no way Percy was going to stand by and let that happen.

He had always been fond of Harry, right from the time he'd entered Hogwarts as a firstie. He had been one of the few people to note that the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't as innocent as he appeared and genuinely appreciated him for it. He knew too well the advantages of hiding in plain sight.

His respect for the boy only grew when Harry risked life and limb to save his baby sister in his second year, while simultaneously avenging the attack on his girlfriend. It was a heavy debt he could never hope to repay.

Hence, Percy did his best to watch out for him back in his final year. To his delight, the Boy-Who-Lived had also come to confide in him slowly. It was a mark of how much Harry trusted him that he was among the select few who knew the identity of the leader of the mysterious Vigilantes.

Percy was surprised to find that he didn't disapprove of their methods in the slightest. He had faint memories of his uncles Gideon and Fabian, who had been ambushed and killed by a squad of Death Eaters in their own home. He recalled, in extreme detail, the grief on his mother's face on the night they received the tragic news, the vivid description of how badly they'd been tortured before their deaths.

If it took someone like the Vigilantes to ensure no one else had to go through that kind of pain, then so be it.

But still, that left the question of what to do about Cornelius Fudge?

In the end Percy came up with a plan: a plan so crazy it should _never_ have worked.

As he explained to Harry at the Yule Ball, it was just a matter of time before Fudge made a move against him; and when he did, he would look for someone who was close to the Boy-Who-Lived to gather information.

So rather than wait for Fudge to make his move, Percy suggested that they force his hand. He and Harry agreed to have a public falling out, which they did at the Second Task (Harry's genuine outrage made everything look more realistic). At the same time, Percy made sure to act as pro-Ministry (or pro-Fudge) as he could, going out of his way to annoy and alienate his own friends and family.

His efforts succeeded beyond even _his_ wildest dreams.

By the June of 1995, Fudge had declared war on Albus Dumbledore, and by extension the Boy-Who-Lived. His toadies scurried around to gather as much support as they could and by the end of the month Percy was already being offered the position of Junior Undersecretary to the Minister himself, in exchange for his help in bringing down ' _the menace that was Harry Potter_ '.

But all good things come at a price.

And in this case, it cost him his family.

It tore at his heart to say such cruel things to his own father, it tugged at his very soul when he saw his mother break down into tears, beseeching him to come back as he walked away from the Burrow, away from the saddened faces of his brothers and sister. . .

But this was war, and war demanded sacrifices.

As much as he hated to do it, he had no choice. Nothing short of complete estrangement from his family would convince Fudge that he was firmly on his side. His father was a great many things, but a good actor he was not. There was always a chance he might slip up and say something if he knew about Percy's plans beforehand, so Percy went out of his way to antagonize him; he hardened his heart and insulted the very man who inspired him to work for the betterment of their society.

All for the sake of this war. . .

"Perce? Percy! Oi, Percy!"

He jumped as Harry snapped his fingers under his nose. "Sorry Harry. . . . you were saying?"

"I was saying that I never really liked the idea of you going up against your own family for all this."

Percy shook his head. "We've been through this before, Harry. I want to do my part in this war, just like everybody else." He exhaled softly. "I'm not a fighter, Harry; I never was. But this. . . this subterfuge, this unearthing of important information. . . this is something I can do for you. . . for us."

"Besides what does it say about my siblings that they accepted my apparent desertion so readily?" He asked with a sad smile.

"I don't think they did, Percy. . . not until you sent Ron that letter. What the hell was that about anyway?"

"Oh that," Percy chuckled softly. "Well, that was your fault, I'm afraid."

"What?" Harry scoffed. "How was that _my_ fault?"

"Well, after you managed to chase Umbridge out of Hogwarts a single week into the term. . . great job on that, by the way. . . . Fudge became even _more_ paranoid. Would you believe me that he actually suspected that you and Dumbledore had turned _Umbridge_ to your side?"

"You're kidding me!" the Boy-Who-Lived exclaimed. "That toad practically worships the ground her beloved Fudgey-wudgey walks on! How in the hell were we supposed to turn _her_?"

"I have no idea," Percy admitted. "Suffice to say he did. Then he directed some of his men to set up mail wards around the castle, specifically looking for letters with 'anti-Ministry propaganda'." He made quotes in the air.

"Wow! Just how paranoid _is_ that wanker?" Harry almost sounded impressed.

"Very," Percy shook his head. "Anyways, that got me thinking. . . . if he could question Umbridge's loyalties, how soon before he started questioning mine? So, I decided to send Ron a letter which essentially reinforced the Fudge administration's views about you."

"Nice. Very nice. But I have to ask: why Ron?"

Percy shrugged. "Fred and George would have pranked the hell out of me if I sent it to them, Ginny would have probably stormed the Ministry and cursed me in front of everyone. . . ."

"Ron, though. . . he's a different story. He's got the famous Weasley temper, but he's all bark and no bite. He'd probably tear up the letter and rant and rave about me being an utter git, but nothing beyond that."

"Which is exactly what he did," Harry looked at him with open admiration. "Very Slytherin of you, Weatherby."

"Who do you think taught Ron how to play chess?" He confidently pushed his glasses up his nose. "And stop calling me that!"

"Alright, alright," Harry got up from his seat and stretched. "I best be going now. Anything else you wanted to talk about?"

"No. Well. . . yes, actually."

"Go on."

"Harry," he bit his lip, not knowing how to say it. "I just wanted to say. . . if something happens to me. . ."

"Stop right there, Perce," the Boy-Who-Lived said sharply. " _Nothing_ is going to happen to you."

"You can't promise that," Percy argued.

"I can. I have," Harry said firmly. "I already promised your mother that she won't be losing any more family to this war than she already has. I won't let her."

"But. . ."

"But nothing," he said in a tone that brooked no further argument. "We're going to _win_ this war. Then, we're going to throw a huge party at the Burrow to celebrate. . . . you, Penelope, the whole family. . . . and me," he added as an afterthought. "Provided Molly doesn't decide to throw me out on my ear once she finds out that I helped you with this crazy plan of yours."

"Fat chance of _that_ happening," Percy snorted. "You _do_ realize she loves you more than the rest of us, right?"

"How do you figure that?"

"She approves of your relationship with Fleur."

"So what?" Harry asked curiously.

" _So what!?_ " Percy chuckled. "Harry, she would _never_ have done that if any of us had brought Fleur home as a girlfriend. Even Bill, and he's her favorite."

"Why? She's got something against Veela?"

"No. But she does have something against the French."

They both laughed at that for a few minutes. "Alright, I have to go," Harry said. "Send word if anything urgent comes up."

"I will."

"Take care, Weatherby."

"You as well. And don't call me that!" Percy bellowed, just as the Boy-Who-Lived disapparated.

* * *

 ** _August 1996_**

Xenophilius Lovegood yanked open the door and beamed at his visitor. "Hello, Mr Potter."

"Hello, Mr Lovegood."

"Come in, come in." Xeno ushered the Boy-Who-Lived in with a smile. "Would you like some refreshments?"

"No, thank you, sir. Just had a heavy lunch at the Burrow."

"Ah, of course. I know full well what Molly's cooking is like," Xeno chuckled. "Impossible to stop with only two helpings."

"Yeah," Harry grinned. He looked around the living room with an interested expression. "Nice place you have here."

"You are very kind, Mr Potter," Xeno smiled fondly at the young lad who had become such a permanent fixture in his beloved Luna's life.

"Where's Luna?"

"Hmmm. . . . oh, she's down by the stream, fishing for Freshwater Plimpies with young Ginerva. Shall I send for her?"

"Oh no need. I was just asking," Harry shrugged.

Xeno decided to get down to business. "Now, your letter said you needed some help, Mr Potter."

"Yes sir. Actually. . . I was hoping you would let me borrow a book from your library. Luna always talks about the wonderful collection you have."

"But of course, my dear boy!" Xeno exclaimed. He was always happy to share knowledge. "Which book do you require? Have you, perchance, decided to take up an interest in cryptozoology?"

"Oh no, sorry sir. Perhaps I should have been clearer at the beginning." The Boy-Who-Lived's smile had become rather fixed now. "I don't want to borrow a book from your cryptozoology collection. I want a book from your _other_ stash."

Xeno frowned slightly. "I'm not sure I understand, Mr Potter."

"Don't you, Mr Lovegood? Or would you prefer to be called. . . Unspeakable Odd?"

Xeno fidgeted uncomfortably under the young man's calculating gaze. "Mr Potter, I'm afraid you're mistaken. I'm just a simple reporter, not some. . . Unspeakable."

"I thought so myself in the beginning too," Harry said slowly, still fixing him with that unblinking stare. "But then I remembered that old saying: the best place to hide a tree is in the forest. So I started asking myself, if an extremely dangerous former Unspeakable wanted to remain hidden and still function in society, what would he do?"

"The answer, of course, was to create a cover for himself that no one would be willing to even _consider_. To act so overtly and draw so much unnecessary attention, that _no one_ would be willing to spare him a second glance when he does something completely out of the ordinary. After all, the best disguise is to hide in plain sight, isn't it Mr Odd?"

At these words the slightly cross-eyed and confused look vanished from Xenophilius's face. His entire demeanour changed to a calculating one, as he sat back in his chair and surveyed the Boy-Who-Lived.

"And lo, we meet at last," Harry whispered. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr Odd."

"I wish I could say the same, Mr Potter," Xeno's voice no longer carried the civility it did before. He sounded curt and to-the-point. "May I ask how you deduced the truth about me?"

"Deduced? Why Mr Odd, I didn't ' _deduce'_ anything," the Boy-Who-Lived said with a smirk. "I just had my _suspicions_ , that's all. Suspicions which you just confirmed by the way, thanks a lot for that."

Xeno's eye twitched slightly in anger. To think he'd been taken in by a teenager. . .

Merlin, he really _must_ be slipping up in his old age!

"What do you want?" he asked quietly.

"A few things. But first, I want to thank you for the assistance you provided to Sirius with those research notes on the Dementors. Really came in handy."

"I am. . . happy to hear that, Mr Potter." And indeed, Xeno was very happy. The idea that the information he'd passed had helped the Vigilantes in getting rid of ten of Voldemort's biggest supporters delighted him more than he cared to admit.

It also had the unexpected bonus of helping him confirm that Sirius Black, and by extension his godson, were involved heavily with the Vigilantes, possibly even financing them. Something he had suspected for quite some time. . .

He _was_ a very good investigative reporter, after all.

"Anyways," Harry said. "I managed to convince Sirius to tell me more about his mysterious friend; the infamous ex-Unspeakable Odd who had supposedly passed on a great deal of information to the Order and their allies during the First War; and who also, supposedly, had in his possession some of the rarest tomes on Dark Magic in all of Britain."

Xeno narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "And just why, Mr Potter, would you be interested in such magic?"

The Boy-Who-Lived leaned forward slightly. "What if I told you that the secret to defeating Lord Voldemort was in one of _your_ books?"

Xeno's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "I would say you have a wonderful sense of humor, Mr Potter."

Harry chuckled slightly. "I do, it's true. But I don't joke about such things, especially to people such as yourself."

The senior Lovegood steepled his fingers together. "What do you need from me, exactly?"

"I have a theory on how to get rid of Voldemort for good," Harry said bluntly. "But to confirm it, I need to refer a few books." He pulled out a piece of parchment and passed it to the older wizard. "This particular book, in fact."

Xeno took the proffered note and glanced at it. His eyebrows rose slightly. "That is quite a Dark tome you're asking for, young man."

"I know."

"You are aware," Xeno said slowly, looking into the Boy-Who-Lived's bright green eyes. "That the very _possession_ of a tome such as this would be enough to earn you ten years in Azkaban?"

"I am," Harry nodded, not breaking eye-contact in the slightest. "I am also aware that I'm not going to find the secret to defeating a Dark Lord in a book from the Hogwarts school library."

Xeno continued to stare at him in that unblinking manner, feeling his heart sink slightly.

Truth be told, he had actually expected this. The moment he'd heard that the Boy-Who-Lived had gone out of his way to befriend his little girl, he couldn't help but feel a small tinge of worry. While he was privately grateful for everything Harry Potter had done to save his girl from being bullied at school, the cynical part of his mind had warned him that such help would not come without a price tag. One day soon Harry Potter would be on his doorstep to collect his dues, and Xeno would have to pay if he wanted to preserve his daughter's happiness.

But this. . . this was too steep a price. That book was much too dangerous in the hands of a teenager, Boy-Who-lived or not.

He licked his lips thoughtfully. "And if I were to. . . refuse your request?"

Harry frowned slightly. "That is of course, _your_ prerogative. The book belongs to _you_ , after all. I guess I'll simply have to start looking into shadier means of getting what I want."

Xeno nearly snorted in amusement. The Boy-Who-Lived wouldn't be here if a tome like that could be found on the black market so easily. "And my daughter?" he prompted.

"Luna? What about her?"

"Am I to believe you will not. . . shall we say. . . take out your displeasure on my little girl?" Xeno asked icily.

Harry gaped at him openly. "You think I'd take out my anger on _Luna_? Just what kind of a bloke do you think I am?"

"You are sitting in my living room, all but blackmailing me, Mr Potter," he pointed out.

Harry scrunched up his face in thought. "That is true, I suppose," he conceded. "But that doesn't mean that I'm going to take it out on one of my friends."

Seeing the disbelieving look on Xeno's face, Harry sighed. "Look Mr Odd. . . Mr Lovegood, I think you've mistaken me for the wrong kind of bloke. I don't befriend people based upon what they can or cannot do for me; I befriend them for _who_ they are."

"You don't want to help me. . . . that's fine. I won't let a disagreement between us come between my friendship with your daughter. Luna is, and will always be my friend, unless she does something to break my trust; something that we both can agree on is simply _not_ in her nature."

Xeno relaxed significantly upon hearing that. He really did not want to be the one cause his girl to lose her first real friend, and the closest thing she had to an older brother figure.

Which still left the decision of granting the Boy-Who-Lived's request. . .

He glanced once again at the note in his hand. "Mr Potter," he said slowly. "Are you absolutely _sure_ this will help you beat the Dark Lord?"

"As sure as I can be without reading it," Harry answered.

Xeno jiggled his foot nervously. He wanted to trust the boy, he really did; but years of training forced him to regard every situation with a very suspicious eye.

"Of course, I'm not expecting you to do it for free."

Xeno blinked at the young man. "Excuse me?"

"I said, Mr Odd, that I'd be willing to offer you something in return for borrowing your book."

"What are you offering, Mr Potter?"

"Tell me. . . is it true that you are a Quester?"

Xeno blinked at the abrupt change in subject. "It is," he said slowly. "I confess, the Deathly Hallows have been an interest of mine. . . . a _genuine_ interest. . . . for some time now. But why do you ask?"

Harry smirked at him. "How would you react if I told you that I have, in my possession, one of the three Hallows of Death?"

Xeno's eyes widened in surprise. "I'm afraid that's quite impossible, Mr Potter. The Hallows haven't been seen since several centu. . ."

He was cut off as the Boy-Who-Lived reached into his pocket and withdrew a silvery-grey cloak.

"It's an heirloom," Harry said simply. "It belonged to my grandfather and was passed down to my father, and through him to me."

Xeno suddenly understood why the Boy-Who-Lived believed that it was _the_ Invisibility Cloak.

Most cloaks were created by placing several layers of Disillusionment charms upon a special piece of fabric, thus giving them a limited lifespan. For the cloak to have retained its properties for as long as it did, it _had_ to be something special.

He ran his fingers gently over the fabric. There were no visible signs of damage at all: no tears, no dirty patches. . . it looked almost brand new. Yet, there was something there, something that an ex-Unspeakable like him could clearly sense. It was the feeling he'd come to associate with powerful magical artifacts. . . . something ancient and unique.

Then there was the rumors he'd heard, about the Potters having descended from Ignotus Peverell himself. It lent a great deal of credence to the young man's claims.

 _Incredible. . . ._

Xeno could scarcely believe this day was happening. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived himself had just walked into his home carrying one of three fabled Hallows! It was simply unbelievable!

"I'm willing to lend you this cloak for a week," Harry spoke, startling him. "Run whatever tests you want on it. I'll be back to collect it on the morning of September 1st, when I come here to pick up Luna for school."

Xeno frowned slightly. "I'm not sure if that would be a fair exchange, Mr Potter. This cloak is _far_ too valuable to trade for a manuscript. Perhaps I should just give you the book and be done with it."

"Oh no, please, I must _insist_ on compensating you for your help, Mr Odd. Besides, I have my own reasons for leaving the cloak in your care."

"Such as?"

Harry exhaled softly. "I'm curious about this cloak. Ever since I found out this was one of the Hallows, I've been wondering what kind of special powers it might be hiding. I was hoping you could examine it and tell me."

Xeno nodded in understanding. "I am honored that you would choose to trust me with a family heirloom, Mr Potter. I'll do what I can to help you. Please wait here."

He got to his feet and strode into the library. Walking into a corner containing a heavily warded safe, he opened it using a small amount of his blood and pulled out an ancient looking tome. After a moment's hesitation, he pulled out another old book and closed his safe.

"Please be careful, Mr Potter," He said as he handed it over. "This is very dangerous magic."

"I will, sir. Thank you." Harry glanced at the other tome. "What's this?"

"It's a very old manuscript detailing the most effective ways of dealing with Dark Creatures." Xeno sat down heavily in his armchair. "Voldemort relied on them heavily in the First War. There is a very good chance he will do so again."

The Boy-Who-Lived raised his eyebrows slightly. "Very astute of you, Mr Odd."

"I still do have a few friends at the Ministry," Xeno shrugged.

"Indeed. Once again, thank you."

"Don't thank me, Mr Potter. If you truly find what you're looking for in that tome, the entire Wizarding World will be in your debt once again." Xeno waved his hand airily. "Besides, I already owe you and the Vigilantes a favor. This is merely my way of repaying you."

"How exactly do _you_ owe me?"

Xeno hesitated, debating how much to tell him. Then again, the Boy-Who-Lived had shared one of his greatest secrets with him a few moments ago. It behooved him to do the same.

"What do you know about Luna's mother?"

"Not much," Harry admitted. "She was a spell-researcher, died in an accident. . ."

"It was no accident! Selene was one of the most brilliant Spell-crafters of our generation," Xeno said sharply. "Someone that smart doesn't get themselves killed due to a simple error in her calculations."

"You're saying she was. . . murdered?"

Xeno sighed tiredly. "Very few people, even among the Unspeakables, knew what she was researching back then. Selene was actually studying the Dark Mark and its properties; specifically, she was looking for a way to prove that the Mark could not be taken unwillingly or under the Imperius, as so many claimed at the end of the First War. It took her the best part of a decade to work out the specifics, but she was close to a breakthrough before the. . . _accident,_ " he spat the word like it was poison, "happened. At the same time, all the back-up copies of her research disappeared from the Ministry archives. So no evidence of foul play, no investigation. "

"But if the project was so secret then how did. . ?" Understanding flickered in Harry's eyes. "Of course. . . Augustus Rookwood."

"Quite. We never did manage to determine how much information he really leaked to his master," Xeno shrugged helplessly.

"But Rookwood was in Azkaban back then, so who. . . ?"

"My best guess: Cantakerous Nott. I know Selene had a few confrontations with him at the Ministry, and he even dropped by our home to threaten her once. But I had no solid evidence, so. . ." Xeno trailed off, raising his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

The Boy-Who-Lived merely regarded him in silence.

"I wanted to do it myself, you know," Xeno said in a low voice. "Avenge her, I mean. With my own two hands. But Nott's a Lord of the Wizengamot, and I'd be lucky to escape the Veil if I tried anything, ex-Unspeakable or no."

"It was Arthur who stopped me. Reminded me of what was important, of what I had to live for: my Luna." He swallowed heavily. "Healers said it was the shock of finding her mother's body. It took a whole year for me to bring her out of her stupor, and even then she was never the same. I kept up the act for her, playing to her fantasies, but I always worried that she'd never make any friends apart from Ginerva."

"But then you came and changed everything. You stood up for her when no one else did, you taught her to rely on herself,you made her. . . _stronger_. Where I failed, _you_ succeeded." He looked at the Boy-Who-Lived with eyes full of unshed tears. "So Mr Potter. . . Harry. . . thank you. For everything!"

Harry simply smiled and reached out to pat the man's arm. "Truth be told, it's Luna who saved me, Mr Lovegood; not the other way around." At the older man's questioning look, he shook his head. "It's something I'll never be able to explain, to you or anybody else; but trust me when I say that Luna saved me from going down a pretty dark road back then."

He slowly got to his feet, stowing the tomes away in a bag. "Thanks once again, Mr Lovegood. I'll drop by in a week to return them."

"Of course, Harry," Xeno said with a genial smile. "I hope to have something useful to tell you about the Cloak by then."

"That's great! Oh, and you might want to keep an eye out over the next few weeks."

"For what?"

"Well. . . a little Blubbering Humdinger tells me that Mr Nott might be suffering an unfortunate accident in the coming weeks," Harry said with a small grin.

"Are you sure that is wise?" Xeno asked cautiously. "He _is_ a Wizengamot member."

"True. But he's old and I've heard he's never been the same since the June of last year. Wouldn't be too much of a surprise if he blew himself up by mistake in the middle of Diagon Alley, in broad daylight with a large number of witnesses. Be a real shame though," the Boy-Who-Lived shook his head in sympathy.

"Of course," Xeno said slowly. "It would be a real shame to lose such an upstanding and valuable member of our society. I must remember to put out a Special Edition of the Quibbler."

"That's a great idea," Harry agreed.

"Wouldn't be much of a journalist if I didn't do at least that much," Xeno nodded sagely.

"True that." The Boy-Who-Lived gave him a slightly crooked grin and stuck out his hand. "I do believe this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Mr Lovegood."

He took the young man's hand with a similar look on his face. "Indeed, Harry. Indeed."

* * *

 ** _30 October 1996_**

The fireplace came alive with emerald flames, and the dignified form of Sirius Black stepped out into the office.

"Sirius! How nice to see you again," Dumbledore said with a bright smile.

Sirius resisted the urge to grimace and replied only with a neutral, "Headmaster."

He felt a small twinge of guilt when the twinkle in the ancient warlock's eyes dimmed a little, but squashed it ruthlessly. Even though Sirius knew full well that Dumbledore had made an honest mistake when he allowed him to be sent to Azkaban, he still had no desire to forgive the old man any time soon. In his eyes, Dumbledore had committed the ultimate sin, not by betraying _him_ , but by allowing his godson to be abused by those horrendous relatives of his for a decade. He didn't give a damn what the old man's reasons were; Sirius Black would hold his grudge over Dumbledore's head until the day one of them died, no matter how petty he might seem.

But this wasn't the time for such things. No, Harry had been firm when he said that whatever problems they had with each other were to be put aside until that Snake-buggering bastard was dead; something that Sirius wholeheartedly agreed with. Voldemort was the enemy right now, and the only one he should be focusing his ire on.

"Is Harry late?" Sirius asked as he took a chair and waved away the offered lemon drops.

"I do believe he. . ." Dumbledore suddenly cocked his head to the side and smiled. "Yes, I do believe he is here."

Sure enough, there was a knock on the door two seconds later and Harry entered with a smile.

"Sorry I'm late Professor," he smiled politely before turning to his godfather. "Been waiting long?"

"I just got here," Sirius ruffled his hair in greeting.

"Well, now that we are all here," Dumbledore regarded both his visitors over his half-moon glasses. "Sirius, I do believe you have something to share?"

The young Lord Black simply nodded. "Daniel's finally got all the votes we need and Amelia sent word that she's ready to move on our say so. We can go ahead with it tomorrow if we like."

"Splendid," Dumbledore smiled. "I am glad to hear that everything has gone so smoothly so far."

"Thanks to you, I may add. I have to admit I was surprised by the sheer amount of blackmail material you had on everyone on the Wizengamot." Sirius gave the older man a respectful nod.

Dumbledore's eyes merely twinkled brightly. "When you have been in politics as long as I have, you learn the importance of gathering as much information as you can. Incidentally, it might surprise you Sirius, but it was your grandfather, Arcturus Black III, who taught me the value of thinking ahead."

"Granddad did, huh? I'm not surprised," Sirius snorted. "Old man was practically _born_ to be a politician."

"Agreed," Dumbledore said solemnly.

"So we're good to go, then?" Harry brought them back to the subject at hand.

"I dare say we are," Dumbledore said. "We will bring our plan to its conclusion in the coming week; assuming Lord Voldemort doesn't do anything to upset the apple cart overmuch."

"About that. . . why are you so convinced that he's going to pull something now, anyways?" Sirius looked at Harry when he said that.

His godson simply shrugged. "Like us, he's spent the last year making his preparations; and like us, he's probably as ready as he could be. Then there's the whole dramatic effect of revealing himself on Halloween. He'd be hard pressed _not_ to use it."

"I quite agree," Dumbledore interjected. "Tom has always enjoyed drawing attention to himself, and had always had a certain penchant for theatrics. Add to that the fact that he is not the most patient of men, and there is a good chance he may choose to reveal himself tonight; or he may not. Either way it is better to err on the side of caution."

"So he's going to pull something tonight. . . or tomorrow, or the next week. Is that why you put the Order on full alert?" Sirius asked.

"Indeed. Alastor and I have stationed our fighters in and around high priority targets. Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, St Mungo's and. . ."

Dumbledore was cut-off as one of the devices on the bookshelves began to emit a high-pitched whistling noise. With surprising quickness for a man of his age, he jumped to his feet and strode over to examine it.

"What the bloody hell is that?" Sirius muttered. He glanced at his godson and was slightly surprised to see him sitting rigidly in his chair, a hard expression on his face.

"Professor. ." Harry spoke up. "Is that. . ?"

"What? What's going on?" Sirius demanded.

Dumbledore turned around to regard them both, his expression grave. "I do believe," he said slowly, "that Lord Voldemort has just entered the Ministry of Magic."

Sirius swore loudly.

* * *

 **AN: And looks we have another cliffhanger folks. . . .  
**

 **I hope you guys liked what I did with Percy. I've seen so many fics showing him as a miniature Fudge that I just _had_ to try something new. I'm sure some of the more astute readers must have suspected this, given the clear discrepancy in his behavior in chapters 6  & 9\. **

**Xeno Lovegood will have his own role to play in the future. There will also be more on Harry and Luna's relationship in the chapter on his POV.**

 **I'm glad to see everyone enjoyed the duel in the last chapter. Stay tuned for more :)**

 **Next up: Amelia Bones finally launches her coup against the Fudge administration. How will the return of the Dark Lord affect the final outcome?  
**


	21. Coup D'etat

**AN: I had a great deal of trouble uploading this chapter, since it didn't seem to show up any time I tried, and I only kept getting an error on my end. Even the Doc Manager was largely unresponsive for a few days. The issue's been fixed though, for now.  
**

* * *

 ** _5 November 1996_**

The fireplace in the Ministry of Magic flared to life and Ophelia Edgecombe stepped out, her face slightly green.

Merlin, she really _had_ to stop using that bloody entrance! She was getting too old for flushing herself down toilets.

How many times had she asked Cornelius for a direct Floo connection to her home? But each time that odious individual rebuffed her, claiming Ministry policy and whatnot.

Ophelia sniffed disdainfully. Really, how ridiculous! The Head of the Floo Network Authority not having a direct connection to her home was _beyond_ absurd. But when had Cornelius Fudge ever been known for his common sense?

Of course, if it had been a simple matter of convenience or pride, Ophelia would have let it slide, but just a few days ago it had become a matter of life and death.

She cast a mournful look around the Ministry Atrium, recalling how she had come so close to death in the very place she had worked in for three decades.

The remains of the Fountain of Magical Brethren were completely gone now, the once imposing statue so thoroughly pulverized that even magic could not hope to fix it. The glass windows on the various levels had been completely shattered, and the banner of the ever-pompous Minister Fudge that hung from the rafters since the last year was gone. The highly polished, dark wooden floor had scorch marks and craters. Even the peacock-blue ceiling had deep gashes cut into it, with some of the areas barely holding themselves together.

Privately, Ophelia thought they were fortunate to have escaped with such little damage, especially considering the battle that had been fought in this very hall.

It was so hard to believe it was only a week ago.

Ophelia remembered that day very well. She had been ensconced in her office at midnight, a rather typical day of work. She'd been wondering about where she and her daughter should go out for their Halloween dinner when suddenly the entire building shook violently.

Her first reaction had been to suspect an earthquake, before she recalled that the Ministry was magically reinforced against such eventualities. Nothing natural or muggle-made could hope to inflict even the smallest amount of damage to the building. Only magic, pure and raw magical power could hope to cause something like that.

 _It couldn't be. . . ._

She'd rushed out of her office, past her panicking sub-ordinates who were busy declaring that Dumbledore had finally decided to attack the Ministry directly. She had simply rolled here eyes back then. Really, Cornelius was getting more and more delusional by the day! Only a fool would believe that Albus Dumbledore, who had declined the Minister's post five times by now, would be trying to overthrow their government.

Unfortunately, the Minister's inner circle was full of them.

She'd crept up to one of the windows, which were rattling noticeably, and peeked downwards where the sound of explosions was coming from the Atrium. . . .

. . . . and nearly fainted in shock at what she saw.

Two wizards were duelling in the middle of the Atrium, their auras causing the very air in their surroundings to sizzle with magical energy. She could make out Albus Dumbledore dressed in garish bright robes, his long white beard dancing around him; but it was the old warlock's opponent who nearly made her wet herself in fear.

Even from that distance, the malevolent expression on the snake-like features was unmistakable.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was there! _Inside_ the Ministry!

Ophelia recalled standing rooted to the spot, watching in utter shock as the undeniable proof of Dumbledore's claims danced around the Atrium firing one vicious Dark curse after another at the ancient Headmaster, who was twirling around the battlefield as he launched his own powerful counter-attacks.

But as terrified as she was, a part of her couldn't help but regard the duel between the strongest wizards of their age in complete awe. Ophelia had not been particularly active in the First War, and her blood status and well-known disdain for mudbloods meant that she and most of her family had been unharmed by the time the fighting ended. She did remember reading the stories of various Death Eater attacks, and rumors about the power of the Dark Lord. Even more notorious were the tales of the epic battles fought between him and the legendary Albus Dumbledore (they clashed dozens of time, with Dumbledore coming out on top in most of them). She had often wondered back then if there was any truth to the supposedly god-like power of the two wizards, or if it was just the product of their society's overactive imaginations.

Watching them fight made her realize how little justice the stories did to their abilities.

It was like something straight out of the tales of Merlin: two legends exchanging spells of an incomprehensible magnitude, their very surroundings bending to their will in a display of magic the likes of which she had never even imagined. She watched in mute horror as the Dark Lord conjured a massive snake out of Fiendfyre, which Dumbledore casually destroyed before turning it back onto his opponent. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named just as casually pushed the flames aside and fired a barrage of Killing curses, all of which were blocked by the animated statues from the Fountain. Then he stabbed his wand into the ground, causing a dozen twenty-foot long snakes to erupt from the wooden floor and charge the Hogwarts Headmaster, who retaliated by waving his wand in a long, fluid motion and caused large spikes of iron to shoot upwards from the floor and skewer them all neatly through the head.

What made it all the more impressive was how casual they both were acting, exchanging such powerful spells while calmly chatting about something, or at least Dumbledore was; He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named sounded like he wanted to bite the older man's head off with his teeth.

At one point, while the Dark Lord was busy shielding from his spells, Dumbledore conjured a massive stone tiger which streaked across the floor towards its opponent, dodging and weaving between spell-fire. It lunged towards He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and. . .

. . . exploded with enough force to shake the ground beneath her feet.

For a brief second it seemed like Dumbledore had won, but when the smoke cleared Ophelia was horrified to see the Dark Lord standing in the middle of a small crater, completely unharmed.

"I grow tired of your games, old man," his sibilant hiss carried throughout the silence of the Atrium. "Let us finish this."

"Agreed," Dumbledore said solemnly.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named drew his arms close, his magic swirling around him, causing his robes to billow as if in a strong gust of wind.

Then with a roar of pure rage, the Dark Lord threw his arms wide. His fully unleashed aura created a massive shockwave that destroyed every last window in the Ministry. Ophelia screamed in terror and fell backwards, hitting her head on the floor and passing out.

It was only later that she would find out the rest. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had launched a deadly attack using all the broken glass shards, which Dumbledore barely shielded against. They continued to exchange spells after that, before the Headmaster managed to land a blow on the Dark Lord which tore his left arm clean off, forcing him to retreat.

Ophelia drew her cloak tighter around herself and made her way to the lifts. Thinking about that day still gave her the shivers.

And Cornelius had wanted to pick a fight with _that_ man of all people!? The warlock who had held his own, and nearly beaten a wizard of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's calibre! She shook her head in despair.

She had warned him back then. She had warned him that the campaign against Dumbledore would cost them all a great deal. Even after years of helping Cornelius embezzle money (how else could she afford her lifestyle) and cover up the many mistakes of their administration, she had absolutely refused to go along with this hare-brained scheme of his. While she had no problems with the Ministry maligning the Boy-Who-Lived (she despised the little bastard for chasing her innocent daughter out of Hogwarts), she had known that a public relations battle against Dumbledore, who had been in politics before most of them were even born, would only end in disaster for them.

And she had been right: it _had_ ended in an utter disaster for the whole administration, their failure revealed to the world in the worst possible way.

Dumbledore had been right. The Boy-Who-Lived had been right. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named really _was_ back from the dead!

 _Damn you Cornelius!_

So engrossed was she in her thoughts that she walked straight into her office without paying any attention to her surroundings. She jumped slightly when she noticed the two uniformed aurors standing near her desk.

"What is it?" she snapped.

The lead auror slowly stepped forward. "Madam Ophelia Edgecombe, you are hereby under arrest on charges of corruption, willfully destroying evidence and embezzlement of Ministry funds," he said in an authoritarian tone.

She gaped at him. "What?"

"Please place your wand on the ground and put your hands on the desk."

Slowly, as if in a trance, Ophelia did as she was told. Her last thought as magic-suppression cuffs were snapped onto her wrists was that Cornelius really should have listened to her.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the Senior Undersecretary's office:

"What do you mean I am _under arrest_?" Umbridge screeched angrily.

Auror Eleanor Bancroft rolled her eyes. "Please place your wand on the ground and put your hands on the desk."

Umbridge seemed to swell in indignation. "You listen here, you _foolish_ girl! I am the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic _himself_! If you think a lowly auror like you can lay your filthy hands upon me, I advise you to think again!"

Eleanor simply raised an eyebrow. "Does that mean you're resisting arrest?"

"That's right," Umbridge said smugly.

"Great!" Eleanor said cheerfully.

Before the older witch could even blink, the auror grabbed her by the hair and slammed her face-first into the desk. Once, twice. . . three times. Then she threw the dazed woman onto the ground, jumped onto her back with enough force to knock the wind out of her lungs and roughly fastened the manacles on her wrists.

"Was that really necessary?" Auror Donald Collingwood, her partner, asked with a bemused look.

"You saw her. She resisted arrest," Eleanor shrugged.

"She didn't even draw her wand," he pointed out.

Eleanor peered at the unconscious form of the toad-like witch thoughtfully. "Hmmm, you have a point there." She reached into the older witch's robes with a slightly disgusted expression and pulled out her wand, which she placed in her hand for a few seconds to get the fingerprints, before putting it in an evidence bag. "Good enough?"

"Yeah," Donald nodded. "Just out of curiosity, was there a reason you were so. . .ah, _rough_ with her? Not that I'm saying she doesn't deserve it, of course," he added hastily.

"Oh I had _plenty_ of reason. This _bitch_ ," she kicked the prone woman in the ribs, "is the reason my husband didn't get his promotion a couple years ago."

"How so?"

"Don't know. Apparently he 'didn't know how to show respect to his betters' or some such rot." She shook her head sadly. "Fifteen years of hard work and he gets passed over because he didn't pander to some sick toad's ego."

"I see," Donald gave the toad in question a hard look. "Do you mind if I give her kidneys a friendly thumping?"

"Knock yourself out."

"Very generous of you."

"Not at all. You know what they say: sharing is caring."

* * *

Cornelius Fudge sighed morosely as he stepped into his office. The last week had possibly been the lowest point of his entire Ministry career.

His approval ratings had gone into negatives, the public was barely one step away from storming the Ministry and hanging him from the nearest lamp-post. . .

Hell, even his _friends_ had turned their backs on him completely. Barnabas Cuffe was having the time of his life, publishing article after article about the Ministry's incompetence. Special issues of the Prophet were selling like hot cakes, with stories written by that bitch Rita Skeeter condemning him and his administration for actively covering up the return of You-Know-Who.

He still had difficulty believing that all this was actually _happening_. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named _inside_ his Ministry! It was ridiculous!

What was more embarrassing was how the whole chain of events had played out. According to the aurors, the Dark Lord had entered the Ministry through the visitor's entrance and walked right past Eric the watch-wizard, who was found dead at his desk. He then went into the Department of Mysteries; and while they still had no idea what he was looking for, whatever it was that he found had infuriated him to such a degree that he destroyed entire sections of the Department, including the Hall of Prophecies. It had taken twenty Unspeakables to put out the Fiendfyre he'd used.

Then He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had gone to the Atrium, where he met and duelled Dumbledore. Bad enough that the old warlock was refusing to say how he knew that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was there to begin with, some night-shift worker had gone and taken photographs of their fight which managed to make their way into the Prophet.

And now. . . now once again Dumbledore was the hero, and a good man like him was being hounded by the public!

Fudge sighed. There really was no justice in the world.

Just as he was wondering how his day could get any worse, Percy Weasley poked his head through the door. "Minister, it's time for your meeting with the Department Heads."

"Of course, of course. . . lead the way, Weasley."

Fudge followed the young man to the Meeting Room, smiling slightly on the way. Really now, that boy was absolutely wonderful! He was one of the few people who had stuck by him in his days of hardship, like good old Dolores. Such loyalty to the Ministry, such belief in their leaders. . . it was a shame more youngsters weren't like Percy Weasley.

 _This_ was what their country needed: Honest good men who worked hard for their Ministry! Why, Fudge himself had. . .

He blinked slightly. "Weasley, where are the others?"

"They're not here, I'm afraid," the deep voice made him jump in surprise.

Two mean stepped out from the shadows of the empty room. Fudge recognized Senior Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, one of Amelia Bones' most trusted men.

"Wh-What's going on here?" Fudge put on an air of outrage.

"Cornelius Fudge, you are hereby under arrest on charges of corruption, misappropriation of Ministry funds, will-full destruction of evidence and collusion with known terrorists in a conspiracy against the British Ministry of Magic. Please. . ."

"Wh-What nonsense is this?" Fudge screamed, backing away slightly.

". . . place your wand on the ground. . ."

"Preposterous! Utterly preposterous!" he yelled in desperation. "I-I am the _Minister for Magic_! You can't. . ."

"We can," Shacklebolt smoothly interrupted. "Now relinquish you wand. . ."

"No!" Fudge cried and pulled out his wand, unsure of what to do next. Before he could even think of anything, however, he was hit by a Disarming charm and his wand went flying.

He barely had time to widen his eyes in shock at the sight of Percy pointing his wand at him before two Stunners hit him in the chest, knocking him out cold.

As his partner proceeded to bind the soon-to-be-ex Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt turned to Percy. "Not that we don't appreciate the assistance, Mr Weasley," he said carefully. "But we had it under control."

"I know you did, Auror Shacklebolt," Percy said grimly. "I just wanted to see that look on the bugger's face before you took him away. Now if you'll excuse me. . ."

"Of course." Kingsley smiled as he watched the young man walk away.

Looks like the apple didn't fall far from the tree, after all.

* * *

The same exact scene was repeated many times all over the Ministry that day. Some, like Ophelia Edgecombe, chose to come quietly; while others had to be brought in the hard way.

Nevertheless, by noon that day every important member of the Fudge administration was hauled away to the Ministry holding cells by the DMLE aurors. Threats were issued, bribes were made, tantrums were thrown. . . . but not so much as an inch was given by the Ministry's finest.

Then the questioning began.

The first person to be interrogated was Cornelius Fudge's biggest supporter and right hand woman. The aurors wisely let the obnoxious witch exhaust herself by ranting and raving at all of them, and when she was finally out of breath an hour later, they strapped her down to the chair and dosed her with their most potent batch of Veritaserum.

The things that spilled out of Dolores Umbridge's mouth made even the most experienced interrogators gape in astonishment.

Confessions of embezzling millions of galleons, scandalous cover-ups that would have lead to bloody revolutions upon discovery by the public, recounting of lavish celebrations thrown every year at the most expensive places in the world and paid for with the public's money, locations of countless vaults of gold in international banks (as part of their ' _retirement fund_ ') and a record of every single dirty act that Cornelius Fudge had perpetrated or turned a blind eye to in his thirty years at the Ministry. . . .

Amelia had, of course, uncovered most of it through her investigations since the last year. But listening to Umbridge corroborate it was. . . _sickening_ , to say the least.

As one of the aurors so succinctly put it, "Fudge and his people are dirtier than a Hippogriff's arse, more slippery than a flobberworm's skin and more rotten than a Hag's teeth!"

But the corruption and financial irregularities were merely the tip of the iceberg.

The revelation that Umbridge had been the one to set Dementors upon the Boy-Who-Lived shocked everyone to the core. Her justification that the boy was simply a ' _lying half-breed who needed to be taught his place_ ' (regardless of the fact that he had been proved right) caused a great deal of anger among the DMLE, who understood fully the implications of giving the Dark Lord a whole year to gather his forces. The fact that Umbridge had tried to cover up her assassination attempt by using the Imperius curse on some of the Azkaban guards only served to increase their ire.

Just when the interrogators were wondering if things could get any worse, Umbridge started talking about her plans for becoming the High Inquistor of Hogwarts. She gleefully explained her plans for wresting control of the school from the senile old coot, the very same ' _senile old coot_ ' who just single-handedly saved the entire Ministry from the Dark Lord's wrath barely a week ago. Completely unaware that the Veritaserum had long since worn off, she went into great detail about how she'd planned on bringing the half-breed Potter down a few notches before ' _circumstances_ ' forced her to return to the Ministry.

When she started explaining her plans to use Blood Quills on the muggleborn and half-blood children in the school (and the children of Fudge's detractors), the interrogators decided to break for lunch. Shortly afterwards, several aurors (who had children currently attending the school) entered the interrogation room with lead-weighted batons and brass knuckles.

Umbridge screamed for the next two hours.

(Madam Bones would later learn of this incident and proceed to shake her head in disappointment. She would then issue an order for Umbridge to be moved to St Mungo's with instructions for the Healers to take their time healing her injuries; no reason to take risks, after all. Upon learning about the woman's crimes, the Healers would decide to use her as a test subject for their interns, with amusing consequences. Well, amusing for them at least.)

When the interrogators returned, they simply handed the badly beaten witch a pile of papers and ordered her to sign them. With multiple ribs broken, her face smashed into an unrecognizable pulp, both her legs fractured and eyes swollen shut, Dolores Umbridge signed the confession papers (ironically, using a Blood Quill) and was carted off for medical treatment.

All this time, Cornelius Fudge was in an adjacent cell that had been charmed to let the sound from Umbridge's interrogation through. When he was gently reminded that Madam Bones' patience was running thin after Umbridge willingly admitted to wanting to use the Blood Quill on her niece, he quickly signed the proffered confession papers without even reading them.

And in doing so, committed the single greatest mistake of his life.

* * *

Amelia had set up the whole thing with text book precision.

She knew full well that it was impossible to try Fudge for his crimes as long as was still a Minister, so she decided that a vote of No-Confidence was the first order of business. An emergency session of the Wizengamot was called at the behest of the newly-reinstated Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore. Then Amelia called for a solicitor's pensieve and invited the Wizengamot to examine two memories, both provided by Dumbledore himself.

The whole thing wasn't exactly legal, especially since the Minister was required to attend all emergency meetings. But Dumbledore convinced the members to overlook such pesky details using his rhetorical skills, and no one wanted to go against Albus Dumbledore, not while the Wizarding public was clearly on _his_ side anyways.

The first memory being projected before the Wizengamot members was that of the confrontation between Dumbledore and Fudge immediately after the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. They watched in horror as Dumbledore practically begged the man to see reason, even going as far as to offer suggestions on how to go about preparing for the war that was sure to follow. But Fudge brushed him off, openly refusing to consider any possible evidence and insulting both the headmaster and the Boy-Who-Lived.

The fact that the very same wizard Fudge was sneering at was the one who saved them from the Dark Lord barely a week earlier only served to heighten the Wizengamot's fury.

Incidentally, the next memory that played showed the battle in question. The entire chamber watched the clash of the two strongest wizards of their age in awed silence. Those who had seen the Dark Lord fight in the First War, enemy and ally alike, absently noted how much stronger he seemed, while simultaneously wondering just how was the ancient Headmaster able to hold his own against such a powerful opponent at his age.

And Fudge had tried to convince them that _this_ man was crazy? That the only wizard capable of going toe-to-toe with the worst Dark Wizard alive was a senile old has-been desperately trying the cling to the vestiges of his power? Several of the Wizengamot members felt a wave of shame at their disgusting treatment of a former war-hero; many others felt a spike of fear shoot into their hearts when they realized just how far they had gone to alienate the very man who was all that stood between their society and the Dark Lord.

Fortunately for them Dumbledore was a great believer in second-chances, or there would have been hell to pay.

When the battle seemed to come to an end as the Dark Lord's left arm was blown off, the entire gallery burst into cheers. Their joy was short-lived however, when they saw the evil wizard's arm begin to regenerate almost immediately.

A paralyzing wave of fear swept through the assembly. _This_ was the man whose return they were denying for over a year? _This_ was the man who had been given an entire year to increase his power and gather his army?

When the memories were finished, there were hysterical demands for a vote of No-Confidence against Cornelius Fudge. Formally proposed by Madam Marchbanks and seconded by Sirius Black, the motion was passed unanimously by the entire Wizengamot. Even Fudge's own puppets and long-time supporters did not want to sully their own reputation by siding with the man.

In less than two hours, Cornelius Fudge was no longer the Minister for Magic.

Chief Warlock Dumbledore then issued a formal arrest warrant in Fudge's name, instructing Amelia to present him before the Wizengamot in the next twenty-four hours and adjourned the session.

* * *

When Cornelius Fudge was dragged before the court the next day, manacled in chains and wearing only a standard prison-issue robes, there were much mutterings of consternation among the Wizengamot members. Those mutterings became exclamations of outrage when Amelia started reading out the charges against him. Those exclamations became bellows of anger and frustration, with some members actually pulling out their wands, by the time Amelia had finished.

Amelia had charged the man with corruption, large scale misappropriation of funds and most serious of all: collusion with known terrorists and conspiracy to commit treason against the British Ministry of Magic and all its citizens.

Amelia then stepped forward and presented her case against Fudge on a charge-by-charge basis.

The first two charges were easy to prove. There was a veritable mountain of evidence to back up her claims, and verifying statements from all the members of the Fudge administration. The last charge was going to take some convincing, though.

This was where Amelia's intelligence really showed itself.

Bringing up detailed records of every action that Fudge authorized in his career as Minister, Amelia proceeded to cross-examine them as closely as she could. She subtly highlighted certain points, twisting the facts to present his actions in the worst possible light. The way she presented the case made everyone suspect that Fudge was an avid supporter of the Dark Lord from the very beginning, and had been secretly working at weakening the Ministry from the inside-out for all these years.

Amelia claimed that Fudge's public denouncing of the Dark Lord's return was a ploy to actually aid He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to take over the country with minimal resistance. She highlighted his repeated budget cuts of the DMLE, his refusal to increase the hiring of aurors, his summary execution of the Death Eater captured at Hogwarts while impersonating a former auror, his insistence that Albus Dumbledore (who was famous for being the only one the Dark Lord ever feared) was attempting to launch a coup against him despite evidence to the contrary, his smear campaign against Harry Potter (another of the Dark Lord's enemies) and ludicrous attempt at getting the teenager expelled from school, his shameless posturing and fake consolations that all was well while He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was busy gathering his forces. . . . all of it was a plan to help the Dark Lord conquer their nation, in return for money and power.

Her accusations were extremely serious, but the evidence put together was so damning that no could argue.

Amelia then proceeded to read out parts of Dolores Umbridge's testimony to the Wizengamot, highlighting their plans to take over the school and sabotage Dumbledore even further. When she reached the part about the Blood Quills, her aurors had to go into the crowd to physically restrain the members from firing curses at the accused. An unsurprising reaction, given that close to half the Wizengamot members had children or grandchildren currently attending Hogwarts.

Of course, this _might_ have had something to so with Amelia leaving out the part about Umbridge reserving the Blood Quills for muggleborns and half-bloods. No point in worrying about such insignificant details; and if the Wizengamot members thought that their own children were being threatened . . . . well, that just a bonus, wasn't it?

Umbridge's confession that she had orchestrated the attack on Harry Potter, signed in her own blood, was the final nail in Fudge's coffin. With Amelia having left out the part that Fudge truly had no idea what the toad-like witch had been up to, it just made the portly man look worse in everyone's eyes.

Indeed, the whole plan went better than even Amelia had dared to hope. The combined death glares the crowd was shooting at the cowering form of Cornelius Fudge would have put a certain thousand-year-old basilisk to shame.

Unknown to most, the true testament of Amelia's genius was in her handling of the corruption charges against Fudge. She had taken a great deal of care to not name a single member of the Wizengamot who was known to regularly bribe the man, instead making it all seem like the gold had all been coming from the Dark Lord.

This was not done out of any generosity on her part, but was actually a thinly-veiled threat. Amelia made sure to make eye-contact with every single dirty Wizengamot member while tackling the corruption charges, including Lucius Malfoy. She was effectively telling them that their lives were in her hands, that she had all the physical evidence she needed to throw them into Azkaban; but wasn't going to do so just yet.

The implication was clear: she _owned_ them. She owned their very _lives_ ; their gold, their homes, their family's prestige, their children's future. . . _all_ of it. From this day forth every breath of free air they took was at _her_ mercy, and they had better remember that when she came to collect her dues.

Being the consummate politicians they were, they quickly got the message. If throwing Fudge under the bus meant that Bones would be appeased, who the hell were they to argue?

Meanwhile, a nearly catatonic Cornelius Fudge could only watch as Amelia Bones systematically destroyed his entire life's work. Thirty years at the Ministry, thirty years of blood, sweat and tears went down the drain in less than two days. He watched Amelia passionately speak to the eagerly listening Wizengamot members, recalling all the times he had watched the woman leave his office with a dejected expression. How strange it was to see the shoe on the other foot.

Then there were the witches and wizards of the Wizengamot. Fudge was astounded to see all the people who he did business with over the years simply averting their eyes. Even his 'good friend' Lucius was staring at him as though he were a particularly interesting insect.

How fickle the nature of politics was!

His attention was drawn to Amelia once again who was waving his ' _confession_ ' at the crowd. She claimed that he had willfully admitted to helping ten of the Dark Lord's greatest supporters, including Bellatrix Lestrange, escape from Azkaban, and had even gone on to swear the Warden and others to oaths of secrecy to keep the news from getting out.

The roar of pure fury from the crowd shook the whole courtroom floor.

In the end, Dumbledore called for silence and fixed the condemned man with a stern look.

"Mr Fudge, is there anything you wish to say in your defense?"

In that moment, there were many things Fudge wanted to say. He wanted to scream that it was all a pack of lies, he wanted to yell and point fingers at all the men who had bribed him for years to do their dirty work, he wanted to plead ignorance of Dolores' actions, he wanted to tell them that he wasn't a supporter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. . .

But for the first time in his life he had nothing to say. He knew he had absolutely no evidence to back up any of his claims, while Amelia had a mountain of paperwork and his and Dolores' signed confessions to back up every single one of her accusations. He couldn't even tell the court about the suicides of the ten Death Eaters in Azkaban: he had himself ordered all evidence to be destroyed, taken oaths from all personnel, and even had the bodies disposed of. Besides, who would believe him if he said that ten of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's greatest supporters had all committed suicide in a single night?

So he did the only thing he could: he bowed his head and shook it slowly.

The sentencing commenced. A small group of members, led by a very vocal Augusta Longbottom, wanted Fudge to be thrown through the Veil. But as Dumbledore rightly pointed out, Fudge could not even be imprisoned for all the crimes he committed as Minister, lest the Wizengamot wanted to set a very dangerous precedent. On the other hand, the magnitude of his crimes was so great that he couldn't exactly walk away unpunished either.

In the end, a compromise was reached: a long-forgotten and archaic law was invoked. Cornelius Fudge was officially declared a traitor to the British Ministry and a _persona-non-grata_ to the British Wizarding community. His entire fortune was to be confiscated and handed over to the Ministry as compensation. All his monies, his property (movable and immovable) were to be used to fund the war effort against the self-styled Dark Lord Voldemort.

While the punishment also included exile, Amelia rightly pointed out that due to the sensitive nature of the information that he was exposed to, it would not be prudent to let him leave the country. Since obliviating years-worth of memories was not an option, it was decided that Fudge would be fitted with a specialized tracking charm that would track his movements at all times. He was also forbidden from residing in any non-magical areas of Britain, and was required by law to report to the Ministry every two days.

After Fudge was escorted away by aurors, Dumbledore called upon the Wizengamot to appoint an interim Minister. In a matter of moments, Amelia's name was put forth by Augusta Longbottom and immediately seconded by Daniel Greengrass.

No one else even bothered to contest.

For the first time in living memory, the entire British Wizengamot unanimously elected an Interim Minister. Chief Warlock Dumbledore passed the motion confirming Amelia's appointment as Interim Minister for Magic, with elections to be held in no less than ninety days. Amelia's first act as Minister was to promote Rufus Scrimgeour to Head of the DMLE, and declare the self-styled Lord Voldemort an Enemy of the State, vowing to defeat him and free the people of Wizarding Britain from his reign of terror. She also promised a fair trial to all the former members of the Fudge administration.

The next day the entire country was full of excited whispers. The fear and gloom that set into the people since Halloween disappeared overnight, and was replaced by an emotion the Wizarding public had not experienced for a long time: Hope.

The newspapers announced Amelia Bones as the next Minister for Magic with much pomp and splendor. Several people noted appreciatively how she'd single-handedly exterminated all the corruption within the Ministry in less than forty-eight hours. People who lined up outside Ministry offices happily noted the burst in efficiency of the usually lethargic bureaucracy. The ordinary folk whispered excitedly about getting their work done without paying a single coin in bribes for the first time in a decade.

Already people were hailing Amelia Bones as the Greatest Minister of the Modern Age. Public statements of approval from the Boy-Who-Lived and Albus Dumbledore were printed in the papers, and the public watched in awe as their heroes stood in open support of the government, urging them to fight against the darkness.

With the dawn of a new day came the dawn of a new age. Already there were whispers in the underground of a new power structure in their society, one which worked towards progress and justice instead of meaningless tradition and backward policies.

Albus Dumbledore, Amelia Bones and Harry Potter. . . the three greatest magicals of their respective generations. A triumvirate leading the attack against the Dark Lord, working to put an end to his reign of darkness for good.

The Second Wizarding War had begun in earnest.

* * *

 **AN: I came across quote which goes like, "One must never attribute to malice that which can be adequately explained by stupidity."**

 **Fudge is definitely not malicious. Sadly, sometimes the greatest damage is caused, not by those by malicious intent, but by** ** **incompetent idiots** blinded by their own greed. The fact that Cornelius Fudge goes off scot-free in Canon, while good people are killed as a consequence of his actions (or inaction) has always irked me greatly. **

**And if Amelia seemed a little ruthless in this chapter, just remember that you can only push a good person so far before they push back; especially if they have the right incentive.**

 **Voldy's reasons for revealing himself at the Ministry will be explained later. Cookies for those who figure it out before :)  
**

 **FYI, Voldemort did run across with the Time Turners during his exploration of the department of Mysteries. That's because, in this story, the Unspeakables are not stupid enough to leave such dangerous items in a glass cabinet.**

 **Next up: Everyone's favorite metamorph finally gets her chapter. Put your hands together for Nymphadoraaaaaaa Tonks!**


	22. A-Tonking We Will Go

**AN: Apologies for the delay, but moving to a new city left me with very little time to post this.**

 **Since my birthday is coming up in a few days, I decided to give this chapter a more light-hearted twist. If humor bothers you, then I suggest skipping it.**

* * *

 ** _1 December 1996_**

Two elderly witches sat outside a café in Diagon Alley with their bags, eager for some hot tea and buttered crumpets after a hard day's shopping in the cold. They gossiped about their nephews and nieces, and whose son was seeing whose daughter. . . the typical conversation of old dears worldwide.

Unfortunately, their wonderful evening tea was in for a rude interruption.

"Bwahahahaha!" cried a young man dressed only in a pair of boxers and a rather flamboyantly pink bathrobe. "Hey there, you old hags! Worship the perfection before your eyes!" He performed several crude pelvic thrusts at each of the shocked women.

Then reaching into a pocket of his bathrobe he brought out a fistful of walnuts and showered them with it. "Suck on these nuts, you old crones!"

With a final butt-wiggle and a loud smelly fart, the deranged young man ran off to torture some other hapless passer-bys.

The two old witches stared at the retreating figure in stunned silence, before one of them finally found her voice. "Agnes. . ."

"Yes, dear?"

"Was that. . . was that the _Boy-Who-Lived_!?"

* * *

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-insult-old-ladies stepped into a side-alley with a victorious smirk on his face.

A wave of his wand transformed his clothes into the standard navy-blue auror uniform. A few seconds later, the teenage boy shifted into the form of a perky witch with a pale, heart-shaped face.

Nymphadora Tonks grinned evilly as she strode out into the Alley. _This_ was how it was done! This was how a _true_ prank was played!

She promised that little bugger she'd make him pay for eating the last of her chocolate ice-cream, and she had! Served him right for trying to mess with the one and only Nymphadora Tonks, the greatest auror of them all!

 _No one gets away with eating my ice-cream, Potter. No one!_

She cackled loudly. By tomorrow the whole country would see pictures of the Boy-Who-was-nuts in their newspapers, and the son of Prongs (really, what kind of a name was _Prongs_ , anyway?) would know to fear the awesomeness that was Nymphadora Tonks.

With a mad cackle that drew alarmed stares from several nearby shoppers, the metamorphmagus apparated back to the Ministry.

* * *

Nymphadora Tonks first met Harry Potter during one of her investigations. Just after that whole Chamber of Secrets incident at Hogwarts her boss, Amelia Bones, had given her the assignment of infiltrating the Boy-Who-Lived's muggle neighbourhood and collecting information about his home life.

Tonks had been thrilled to receive this particular assignment. She had always preferred field work over a desk job and apart from the fact that reporting directly to the DMLE was something special for a trainee auror like her, the idea of being able to see a celebrity like Harry Potter up close (she had already entered Auror Academy before he started at Hogwarts) was pretty exciting. The Boy-Who-Lived was an enigma to boot, and the idea of investigating him using her skills greatly appealed to the part of her that enjoyed the more glamorous aspect of their job.

She felt like James Bond from those films her dad liked to watch on the telly. And while the word ' _suave_ ' did not exist in Nymphadora Tonks dictionary (no matter what she said otherwise), her metamorph skills more than made up for her noticeable lack of subtlety.

But whatever she had expected to find, Privet Drive was most certainly not it.

Her bullshite radar started going haywire the second she walked into the neighbourhood. The identical looking houses, the stuffy feel of the suburbs, the way some of the more prudish neighbours sniffed loudly at her perfectly respectable attire (punk-rock T-shirt and jeans). . . . it all just felt strangely _off_ to her.

Then there was Harry Potter's home, Number Four. The house was even stranger than the rest. For one thing, Tonks could detect the presence of some incredibly powerful wards around the place (she made sure to include that in her first report) though she was able to get past them with ease.

The occupants of the home were another case entirely.

From what she could see, there were only two other people living in the house: a rather fat boy and a rather thin woman. They were the Dursleys, Potter's muggle relatives from his mother's side. But that by itself wasn't so strange. No, what _was_ strange was the way those two behaved around young Harry. It was almost like the mother-son duo went out of their way to avoid him, and the couple of times they did come face-to-face there was. . . well, nothing. No greetings, no small talk. . . heck, they didn't even make eye-contact with the poor boy.

And if that wasn't bad enough, there was the rest of the neighbourhood. Tonks wasn't entirely sure about the details, but someone had gone to great lengths to convince everyone who lived on Privet Drive that Harry Potter was some kind of a hooligan. The gossiping housewives swore that he attended some juvenile institute called St Brutus', and that he was nothing but trouble to his poor hard-working aunt.

The first time a woman with a rat-like face (Polkiss or something like that) said that to Tonks, she was half-tempted to hex the stupid bint right then and there. But the boss had told her to keep a low profile, and the boss' word was law.

So Tonks continued to do her job, though she now worked with a renewed diligence. Her suspicions that the Boy-Who-Lived was probably being abused (or had been in the past) made her develop a kind of protective streak towards the kid. So she kept an eye on him for longer than she had to, doing her best not attract undue attention.

Unfortunately, stealth had never been one of her finer points.

* * *

On one particularly sunny day, Harry Potter threw the living room windows open and took a deep breath.

"Whoever is out there, you can come out now. There's no one at home," he said loudly.

There was no response.

"I just baked a fresh batch of cookies," he added quietly.

This time there was a small rustle in the begonia bushes. "Chocolate chip?" a voice asked hopefully.

"And milk," he agreed.

"That's just grand!" With a flourish an invisibility cloak fell to the ground, and the pale heart-shaped face of Nymphadora Tonks beamed at the Boy-Who-Lived. "Wotcher!"

With a gracefulness that surprised even her, Tonks jumped clean through the open window into the living room. She turned around to smirk triumphantly at the slightly impressed looking boy. . .

. . . . only to trip on the carpet and fall flat on her face.

"I meant to do that," she called out from the floor.

* * *

After the disastrous introduction, she followed the Boy-Who-Lived as he gave her an impromptu tour of the house, plate full of cookies in one hand. She also casually explained the nature of her assignment, and using her metamorph ability to infiltrate the neighbourhood ( _Cor! It sounded so grand when she put it like that!_ ) and find out more about his family.

"Why does Madam Bones want me investigated anyway?" There was a hint of wariness in her voice. "Am I in trouble or something?"

"Nah! She's just concerned about you, that's all. There's surprisingly little information about your living conditions, so Madam Bones asked me to check up on your guardians to make sure they're treating you alright." She peered at him in slight suspicion. "They _do_ treat you well, don't they?"

"They're fine," he waved her concerns away. "My aunt isn't a huge fan of magic, so she and my cousin simply stay out of my way."

"That's not right!" Tonks said indignantly.

"It's _fine_. I'm barely here for a month every year, anyway. Heck, if the Weasleys weren't in Egypt I would be at their place right now."

"That still doesn't make it right!" Tonks shook her head stubbornly. "You shouldn't have to live with people like them!"

"I know," he ran his hand through his hair. "And I wouldn't be staying here if not for the wards. I assume you noticed them?"

Tonks nodded. "The wards were the first thing I checked. They're powerful. . insanely powerful. Heck, I don't think even the Ministry's wards are this strong."

"They're Blood Wards," Harry explained. "I'm not entirely sure about how exactly they work, but they react to outsiders based on their emotions. It's pretty amazing actually."

"Intent-based wards. Pretty powerful magic, that one," Tonks whistled in admiration. "I don't suppose you had them checked out?"

"I did, actually. Hired a team from Gringotts during my first year."

"You wouldn't happen to have their report, would you?" she asked hopefully. "Madam Bones would really appreciate it."

"Sure. It's here somewhere." Harry started rummaging around inside a drawer. "So, you're an auror, huh?"

"Yup," she said proudly. "Just a year from my graduation, too. Mind you, I'm not supposed to be given any missions right now, strictly speaking; but Madam Bones picked me since my scores are among the highest in my class. My metamorph skills are a just a bonus."

Harry chuckled softly. "Yeah, those powers really are something. Shame you're so bad at this espionage stuff, though."

Tonks puffed up in outrage. "I'll have you know that I'm really good at espionage, thank you very much!"

"You just sold out your boss over a plate of cookies," the Boy-Who-Lived reminded her.

Tonks stopped nibbling on a cookie and frowned slightly. So she had.

But she wasn't going to let a pesky detail like that mar her image in the kid's eyes. She hastily rooted around in the 'Make-up-shite' section of her brain for a good excuse.

"That's because. . . because Madam Bones told me to," Tonks proclaimed. "She told me to introduce myself when my investigation was to come to an end. Think of it as a big ' _Hello_ ' from the DMLE." She tried hard to not think of all the possible ways Madam Bones would skin her alive if she found out about this conversation.

For his part, the Boy-Who-Lived seemed completely unconvinced. "Riiiight," he crossed his arms and smirked. "Whatever you say, _Nymphadora_."

"Watch it!" she snapped.

"Why? That _is_ your name, isn't it. . . _Nymphadora_?"

She took a threatening step forward, her hair and eyes turning into a threatening share of red, though the effect was slightly ruined by the cookie dangling from her mouth. "I'm warning you, Potter. . ."

"Oh yeah?" Harry also took a step forward. "Warning me about what exactly, _Nymphadora_?"

Tonks actually grew several inches in her outrage. Her eyes were now the color of eldritch flame, and a faint magenta colored aura surrounded her, her magic practically boiling at the surface.

Harry Potter also unleashed his own aura slightly, his emerald eyes beginning to glow as a green aura surrounded him.

Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and miles away two well-known redheaded pranksters felt a chill go up their spine.

("What's the matter with you two?" their sister asked.

"By the pricking of our bums. . ." Fred Weasley intoned ominously.

". . . something wicked this way comes," George Weasley finished.

Ginny simply stared in confusion.)

* * *

 ** _2 December 1996_**

Tonks whistled happily as she went about returning the documents to their respective places in the filing cabinet. While her wonderful prank sadly did not make to the front page of the Prophet, there were enough rumors about the Boy-Who-Was-Nuts to satisfy her thirst for payback.

For now it would have to suffice. Besides, she had a date with Remus to look forward to tonight.

Thinking about the former Hogwarts professor brought a slightly perverted grin to her face. While it was true he was little old for her parents' taste (he'd been a firstie at Hogwarts when her mum and dad graduated and eloped), his intelligence and calm demeanor more than made up for any shortcomings. Not to mention that Tonks found his nerdy cuteness to be slightly adorable.

No, if Remus had one fault it was only that he was much too meek around her, as though afraid he might push her away. Tonks supposed that part it was due to all the years he'd spent as an outcast, though there was also the point that he'd never actually gone out with a girl before.

Still, did he have to be so infuriatingly noble _all_ the time? Honestly, there were days when she seriously considered Stunning the bugger, throwing him over her shoulder and marching off to her apartment to shag the living daylights out of him.

 _Hmmm. . . maybe that's what he's looking for? Perhaps he secretly wants **me** to be the aggressive one?_

Yes, Nympahdora Tonks decided. That was it. Remus wanted her to take the lead, so who was she to argue? Perhaps it was time for her to invest in some handcuffs with Unbreakable charms, and maybe some high-heeled boots. . .

"Hey Tonks!" Junior Auror Laura Eldridge poked her head through the door and cut off her increasingly indecent thoughts. "Come out into the break room!"

"Why?"

"We just got a delivery of these really neat pair of animated dolls. Fun as hell, I tell you!"

Tonks rolled her eyes. "No thanks, Laura. I'm much too busy to sit and play with dolls."

"But these ones have really good animation charms on them. Real high-quality stuff! You simply _have_ to take a peek," she insisted.

"I'll pass, thanks," Tonks yawned and walked away.

She passed the break room on the way, absently glancing at the crowd of aurors huddled around the desk. She shook her head bemusedly over their excited chatter over a pair of toys. Really, sometimes they all acted like children. . .

"Oh Wolfy!"

Tonks froze. Even from this distance there was no mistaking that high-pitched mocking voice.

 _It can't be! Not here. . ._

"Yes Tonksie?"

The second voice made her gut wrench in sheer terror.

 _Not_ _ **him**_ _as well!_

Tonks rushed into the room and fought her way through the crowd. When she spotted the objects on the table, her jaw actually dropped.

On one end of the table was the figurine of a little girl with pink hair, dressed in a red riding hood costume. She held a tiny wand in her hands, shyly moving from side to side. "Oh Wolfy," she squeaked in the shrill familiar voice of Sirius Black. "What big eyes you have!"

The stuffed wolf, who was dressed in a set of teacher's robes with a Gryffindor-red scarf (the letters RJL clearly visible on it) and looked up from the book in his furry paws. "The better to see you with, my dear," he answered. There was absolutely no mistaking the barely-disguised low-pitched voice of Harry Potter.

"Oh Wolfy!" the Tonks dolls squeaked again, to loud guffaws from the surrounding aurors. "What big hands you have!"

Tonks thought she was going to die of embarrassment when the Remus doll answered. "The better to grope you with, my dear!"

"Oh Wolfy!" The crowd was openly whistling and catcalling at the young metamorph now. "What a long tongue you have!"

The Remus doll leered and ran his extra-large tongue over his furry snout. "The better to . . ."

But what the Wolfy doll wanted to do with its long tongue would forever remain a mystery, as at that precise moment Nymphadora Tonks pulled out a wand and reduced both the offending toys and the entire table to dust.

For a long time the only sound audible in the break-room was that of the metamorph auror's heavy breathing. Her cheeks flushed, her hair turned blood red in rage, Tonks glared evilly at her colleagues, practically _daring_ them to say something.

Fortunately, none of them were feeling particularly suicidal at the moment.

With one last look that promised a particularly painful death to anyone stupid enough to even _mention_ the dolls in her presence, Nymphadora Tonks turned and marched away from the break room.

She had a crafty cousin to hunt down, and a troublesome teenager to kill.

* * *

Unfortunately for Nymphadora Tonks, her revenge was going to have to wait. It turned out that her bad day had barely begun.

"What do you mean I have to get rid of those dolls by myself?" she asked in disbelief.

Minister Bones glared at her through her monocle. "I meant _exactly_ what I said, Auror Tonks. I just received a report that those toys were delivered to every single office in the Ministry. Since all those items are connected to you, it is only fair that you be the one to dispose of them."

"But there must be _hundreds_ of those things," Tonks whined. "Why can't you ask the Magical Accidents blokes to do it?"

"Because the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes has far more important things to do than to respond to prank items," Bones answered primly.

Tonks glared at her boss. " _He_ put you up to this, didn't he?"

Bones merely arched an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."

"Liar!" Tonks hissed, her anger making her forget whom she was speaking to. "What's _that_ supposed to be then?" She pointed at a chocolate wrapper lying innocently on the Minister's desk.

Bones quickly vanished the offending wrapper with her wand. "You must understand," she gave a slightly embarrassed cough. "Chocolate truffles are a weakness of mine. . . and this particular brand is sold only in France, so. . ."

"You sold me out for a box of chocolates?" Tonks demanded indignantly. She couldn't believe that the incorruptible Minister Bones could have fallen so low.

"Of course not!" Bones scoffed. "What kind of a person do you take me for, Auror Tonks?" She levitated a small crate onto the desk and smiled brightly at the disgruntled metamorph. "He sent me a _dozen_ boxes! Such a sweet boy, isn't he?"

Tonks felt her eye twitch in anger.

The upshot was that Nymphadora Tonks spent the whole day running up and down the whole Ministry, disposing of the " _Wolfy and Tonksie_ " dolls. The first few times she'd actually deigned to offer an explanation to various co-workers before vanishing the offending items, but by the time she'd reached the last few offices she'd been so fed up that she simply walked through the door and blasted the bloody things and stalked away silently, the sound of loud cursing following her.

Knowing that she'd left a large group of disgruntled employees in her wake cheered Tonks up slightly. After all, the best way to deal with frustration at the workplace was to spread it around.

But her job was far from over. She still had to track down the people who'd manufactured those infernal things, and make sure none of them ever saw the day of light again.

Thankfully, that part was much easier. Only two people whom Tonks knew of would have the audacity to create something like that, let alone ship it to the Ministry of all places.

* * *

It was late in the evening when Tonks stormed into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and demanded that they turn over their entire inventory of dolls to her, lest she burn down their store over their heads. The insufferable Twins' responded by rolling on the floor while laughing their heads off.

They stopped laughing when she started muttering the Fiendfyre chant under her breath.

It still took hours to sort through the magically expanded basement-turned-warehouse under the devil Twins's shop, and while Tonks was half-tempted to simply burn down the whole thing (with the ginger prats still in it) she decided to show more restraint in the end.

And so it was that a filthy, dishevelled Nypmhadora Tonks made her way back home in the dead on the night. She staggered into the living room still smelling of smoke, and raised an eyebrow at her mother.

"He's in the study," Andromeda Tonks said helpfully.

Tonks merely grunted in response and limped away. She paused at the doorway and glared at her tormentor, who was seated in an armchair wearing robes of an eye-watering shade of orange, Fawkes the phoenix perched on his shoulder.

"Ah Nymphadora!" He twinkled his eyes at her. "Come in, my dear!"

Resisting the urge to hex him in retaliation, she moved closer.

"Gummy bears?" he offered, peering at her fondly over his half-moon spectacles.

She raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you be offering me lemon drops?"

"The old man's the one with a lemon drop addiction, I'm not," Harry shrugged, breaking character for the first time since she entered the room. "So," once again he twinkled his green eyes at her. "Gummy bears?"

Tonks sighed and took a few. Popping the candy in her mouth, she took out a piece of parchment from within her robes and handed it to him.

"What's this?"

"It's a declaration of my. . _surrender_ ," she ground out between clenched teeth.

"Ah! So you have finally decided to bow before my superior intellect and pranking skills?" Harry said smugly.

"Yes," Tonks announced in a flat tone. "I prostrate myself before your might, oh son of Prongs!"

"Excellent, excellent," he perused her Declaration of Defeat over his half-moon spectacles. "And the rest?"

"I'll go down to the Prophet's office tomorrow and tell them it was all a prank by me," she sighed.

"Wonderrrrful," he purred. "And. . . ?"

Tonks clenched her fists and fought hard to keep herself under control. "And you can call me by my first name for the next two weeks," she spat.

"Excellent, _Nymphadora_! I shall be on my way then, _Nymphadora_!" He got up with a wide smile on his face. "Good night, _Nymphadora_! Sweet dreams!"

And with a loud cackle, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-annoy-metamorphs disappeared in a flash of flame.

Tonks turned on her heel and stomped back to her room, passing her mother on the way.

"Not _one_ word, Mum," she hissed as Andromeda Tonks made to open her mouth.

She wasn't sure if she could stand to hear an ' _I told you so_ ' right now. She just couldn't.

* * *

"All this is. . . mine?" she whispered, unable to believe her eyes.

"Indeed," Screwloose the goblin confirmed.

Tonks nearly passed out in shock.

When she'd been informed that Bellatrix Lestrange's vault had been passed down to her after the 'tragic' deaths of the entire family (something which Minister Bones made her swear to keep a secret), she honestly hadn't been that thrilled.

After all, knowing her batty aunt the vault was more likely to be full of stuffed heads of muggles or pickled human infants; and Nymphadora Tonks had no desire to go anyway close to that kind of crazy. No sir.

But Bones had insisted that she go up to Gringotts and lay her claim on the Lestrange fortune before any undesirable elements (like the Malfoys) did. She claimed that there was something in the vault that was vital to the war effort, and that it was Tonks' job was to ensure it did not fall into the hands of any supporter of the Dark Lord, former or current.

And who was Tonks to argue with that?

Still, whatever it was that she had expected, it wasn't this.

Huge piles of gold, boxes full of precious jewels, shields and goblin-made helmets set on shelves rising to the ceiling. . . .

All hers. _Hers!_

Tonks reacted to it the only way she could. . .

"Bwahahahahaha!" she cackled, throwing out her arms wide, hands curled into claws. "Bwahahahaha!" her evil cackling drew alarmed stares from everyone around her, except for Andromeda (who had long since become immune to her daughter's eccentric behavior) and Screwloose (he was the account manager of the _Lestrange_ family, after all).

"Mwahahaha. . . .urp!" Tonks clamped her hands over mouth. Now was not the time for manic laughter. Now was the time to plan and plot about what she was going to do with all this wealth!

She was rich! Oh yes, Nympahdora Tonks was a rich witch; and she was going to take full advantage of her riches for as long as she could!

"Harry, is this it?" Sirius suddenly said.

"Lemme check. . ."

"What are you guys doing?" Tonks moved to stand beside Remus and the other two, who were clustered around a small golden cup that had been fetched from the top of one of the shelves.

"Confirming a hypothesis," Remus answered as he took out his wand. "Dora, may I. . . ?"

"Oh sure. Go ahead." She watched in fascination as he waved his wand around in a long intricate pattern, muttering incantations under his breath. After a minute he stopped, and turned to the other two with a grim expression. "This is it."

"Thank Merlin," Harry muttered, opening a small box with runic inscriptions on them. Tonks recognized it immediately. It was similar to the standard Dark Artifact preservation unit that the aurors used sometimes.

"Is that. . . Helga Hufflepuff's cup?" Andromeda whispered in awe.

"I'm afraid it is," Remus confirmed.

"You're kidding me!?" Tonks leaned forward and squinted at the cup, seeing the engraved badger on it for the first time. "You're not kidding me. . ."

"What in the name of Merlin is Hufflepuff's legendary cup doing in _Bellatrix's_ vault?" Andromeda wondered.

" _That_ is a very long story, Andy. But it's not important right now. We have to get rid of it," Sirius said.

"Get _rid_ of it!?" Tonks gaped at her cousin. "The bloody thing is a Hogwarts Founder's artifact, and you want to get _rid_ of it?"

"It's also a very dangerous dark object," Harry explained. "Look Tonks, we can't tell you much more than that. The only thing you need to know is that this. . . _thing_ needs to be destroyed quickly."

"But. . ."

"I swear I'll explain everything once we finish up here. But for now, you need to trust us. _Please_ Tonks!"

She peered at him and Sirius suspiciously. "This isn't your idea of a prank, is it?"

Sirius snorted. "Even _I_ wouldn't joke about something like this important."

Remus laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "They're not playing around, Dora. I swear I'll tell you everything later, but for now you must let them take the cup."

Tonks sighed in resignation. "Alright, you two can take it. But I expect the next ten generations of your descendants to repay me in full."

"No problem," Harry grinned. "Assuming the dog here is actually going to _have_ any kids."

"I so _am_ going to have children of my own!" Sirius puffed himself up indignantly. "In fact, I'm going to pull a Arthur Weasley someday and have a brood big enough for a quidditch team."

The idea of seven little scamps raised by Sirius Black caused everyone in the room (including Screwloose) to shudder with fear. They doubted if Hogwarts, or even their world, would survive such a thing.

* * *

Tonks' elaborate dreams of swimming in a large pool of gold were quickly dashed to pieces by her mother, who gently reminded her that the treasure in the vault once belonged to her Cruciatus-crazy, Dark Lord-worshipping ' _I-eat-muggleborn-kids-for-breakfast'_ aunt, and thus was tainted with the blood of innocents.

On the other hand, as Screwloose so eloquently put it it was also a 'shite ton' of gold.

In the end, they reached a compromise: Tonks decided to donate half the vault to St Mungo's long-term spell damage ward, and another half of the remaining gold to the DMLE to buy better equipment for the upcoming war against the Dark Lord Moldyshorts.

That left the metamorph with a quarter of her inheritance, which was still a rather substantial amount.

Now what was she to do. . . ?

Her eyes fell upon the innocent and noble former Hogwarts professor chatting with her mother after lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, and a slow evil smirk spread across her face. She recalled there were several Veela couples massage parlors in Paris. If they grabbed an International portkey now, they would be back by this time tomorrow morning.

That is, assuming the both of them were able to walk straight the next day.

Decision made, she sidled up to Remus and pulled him over to the side. "Hey there, Wolfy," she said in a husky voice, batting her extra-long eyelashes seductively at him. "What say you and I go somewhere. . . . _private_ to celebrate tonight, huh?"

Remus had a sudden vision of himself as a nice juicy steak being stared at by a particularly hungry werewolf. The look in Tonks' eyes made him fear for his virtue so badly that he wanted nothing more than to go hide under his bed until the next full moon.

"Dora, I. . ."

"And just where," Andromeda's cold voice rang from behind them. "Do you think you're going with him, Dora?"

"Oh bugger!" Tonks cursed, having completely forgotten about her mother. There was nothing else to do now. "Harry, Code Red Alpha Alpha!"

"Code Red Alpha Alpha!? Alright!" The Boy-Who-Lived swung into action and pulled out his wand. "I'm sorry, Padfoot."

"Wha. . . ?" was all Sirius could say as his godson waved his wand at him.

Then someone screamed.

Andromeda clapped a hand over her eyes in horror as Sirius Black stood in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron, naked as the day he was born. The Lord of the House of Black yelped and valiantly tried to cover his modesty with his hands.

Pandemonium reigned as an old lady fainted at her table, while her unconcerned friends shot appreciative looks at the younger wizard. Several witches and, to Sirius' eternal embarrassment, a few wizards wolf-whistled and jeered at the naked Lord.

Finally Sirius' brain kicked in and he reverted into his dog form, proceeding to chase his godson up and down the whole pub.

Meanwhile, Nympahdora Tonks took advantage of this handy distraction to grab Remus and bolted for the exit. With a triumphant cry, the metamorph auror apparated them both to the International Portkey office.

It was time to finally determine the truth behind the rumors of werewolf stamina, once and for all.

* * *

 **AN: And there we go, folks! Hope you had a few good laughs. I always wanted to write a scene with Harry imitating Dumbledore, and a goblin named Screwloose. :)  
**

 **I believe it is now clear as to why Amelia covered up the DE "suicides" in the previous chapter. It was a ploy to throw Lucius off the scent and get their hands on Hufflepuff's cup.**

 **Another reason I decided to write this chapter this way is because the next few chapters will be darker and much more serious.**

 **That's right, it's finally here! The part you've all been waiting for: the origins of Harry Potter will be explained over the next six chapters.**

 **Next up: The story of the Dursleys is revealed. How far did Vernon and Petunia's treatment of their nephew go into making him what he is?**

 **Stay tuned to find out :)**

 **Also, I would like to invite my readers to take a couple minutes of their time and go through the small note below:**

 **To the annoying guest writer who left a 14 page long thesis in the review section, for the love of god just take a hint, man. I'm NOT interested in reading that condescending tripe you call a review, so please just go away!**

 **I've always encouraged my readers to leave their frank opinions on my story. I rely on your criticism to help me improve my writing (I only started posting on this site in April) and to point out any plot-holes I might've inadvertently left. Politely-phrased suggestions and ideas are also most welcome. Heck, I don't mind if you're a little harsh with your wording as long as you're not swearing at me and if you're actually pointing out a very silly mistake I made.**

 **But when someone takes it upon themselves to post a 500 word long rant on each and every chapter of the story, none of which have a single good thing to say about either the content or my writing, that's taking things too far.**

 **Yes, PaC I'm talking about you.**

 **For those of you who have forgotten: I am NOT J K Rowling. Please don't direct your hatred for the HP canon onto me as it's not MY fault the story turned out the way it did. Yes, I am trying to do something different with the canon story, and if you can understand that and have some patience then please do stick around. I understand the development of the fic might seem a little slow to some of you, but there's a reason that I put this under the ' _Mystery_ ' category. Wouldn't make sense for me to reveal everything when we're only half-way through the story now, would it?**

 **And if you want to rant about problems with canon, I suggest you all go to JKR's twitter account. She'll definitely be most interested since _she's_ the one making money off of the HP franchise, while I am not.**

 **I am merely an amateur writer who is using this forum to improve my skills in the dreams of publishing my own work someday. It's the reason why I'm writing this 250,000 word long fic, it's the reason why I stay awake throughout the night even after a hard day's work to deliver good content for my eagerly-waiting readers. I don't care if you don't appreciate me for it, but don't go around dictating terms on what I should or shouldn't do with MY story. If you have so many problems with what I write, I suggest you write your own fic and leave me be.**

 **So in conclusion, to PaC I say this: please stop spamming my story, since that is what your completely over-the-top reviews are. I'm seriously tempted to disable all guest reviews thanks to you, but I won't because it would be too unfair to all the other wonderful guests who leave such helpful and politely phrased criticisms.**

 **In the meantime, I will say what I have always said to my _true_ readers: please do let me know what you think about this chapter, since humor is always an iffy thing with me. Don't let the above rant discourage you from posting; it was just something I had to get out of my system for a while now.**


	23. What Goes Around

**AN: Was going to originally be two chapters, but I decided to combine it into one since I made you guys wait so long.**

 **Warning: Scenes of extreme violence and child-abuse in this chapter. If that's not your cup of tea I suggest skipping it.**

* * *

Vernon Dursley was a man with a nasty temper.

Even as a teenager he had always been quick to show his displeasure to other people. It was one of his long cherished beliefs that a man should always be ready to bloody others for their own convictions, especially when others flouted them so openly.

His own father had raised him to be a true Englishman, loyal to Queen and Country. He had instilled the value of hard work and perseverance in him through many years of hard physical labor. The senior Dursley had also been firm in his opinion that he'd never tolerated any "namby-pamby wishy-washy nonsense" from anyone, and neither should his son.

But Vernon took his father's teachings even further. Instead of a simple distaste for unusual people, he'd developed a near-pathological hatred for anything even remotely out of the ordinary. In his view, anyone who willingly divorced themselves from reality, who reached out for things beyond their grasp, who thought and spoke about things beyond the understanding of common folk deserved to be shot. He had a single name to describe people like these: freaks.

Petunia's sister was such a freak.

Vernon remembered the day he'd first met the woman on the day of his and Petunia's engagement. He'd disliked her immediately, whether it was because of her sharp intelligence or her good looks (women like that always made him nervous) he couldn't really tell. Her boyfriend hadn't helped matters either, being all loud and obnoxious, laughing and joking with everyone in sight. The man's expensive outfit and loud motorbike had only made Vernon's opinion of him worse.

He'd known, right then, that these two were freaks of the worst kind. He just hadn't known how right he really was.

When Petunia had confided in him that his sister could do all sorts of unnatural things, he'd merely assumed she'd been pulling his leg. But when that strange man, Potter or something, pulled out a stick and started doing all kinds of crazy stuff, Vernon had nearly had a heart attack.

After throwing a fit large enough to nearly bring the whole house down, he had firmly told Petunia that there was no way he would ever accept such. . such unnaturalness being associated with him. He had effectively demanded her to choose between him and her own blood.

He knew he'd found his soul-mate the second she elected to be with him.

And so he and Petunia spent many happy years together. He got the position he'd been hoping for at Grunnings, they moved into a new house in Surrey, they were even blessed with a healthy baby boy; and for a while there Vernon had truly believed he was living the perfect life.

Until trouble showed up at his doorstep one Halloween.

Vernon had raged and stormed angrily that November morning, unable to believe the sheer audacity of those weirdos for dumping a child on their doorstep. He had sternly declared that they should simply dump the snivelling brat in some orphanage and say 'bloody good riddance'.

But Petunia had refused. Apparently the letter that had been left behind with the boy was from an old man she'd once heard from long ago, and she couldn't help but take it seriously. Vernon himself couldn't make head or tails out of that strange letter. For one thing, it was made out of something other than paper. For another, it said some really baffling things.

It claimed that the boy was indeed Harry, the son of Petunia's sister (turns out Vernon had been right in his suspicions) and that his parents had been murdered last night (again, good riddance). It also spoke of some ruddy hocus-pocus regarding blood (really, what was _wrong_ with these people!?) and that Vernon and his family would be "protected" as long as they let the runt stay under their roof.

It was with great reluctance that Vernon had agreed to take in the boy, and that too only because Petunia's conscience did not allow her to dump the little bastard in the garbage bin where he belonged. Still he kept a wary eye while the boy grew up, waiting for him to show signs of freakishness like his parents. And while there were plenty of small things, like making Dudley's toys fly and bringing objects down to the floor from high up places. . there was nothing severe enough that Vernon could use as an excuse to throw the little bastard out on his ear.

The more he grew, the more nervous Vernon got. He knew that it was just a matter of time before that boy's freakish powers grew out of control and he did something in front of the neighbours that they wouldn't be able to explain. Worse, he might end up hurting Dudley or Petunia. . and that was something he could _never_ allow.

Hence, Vernon took it upon himself to discipline the boy. He also confided in Petunia his plans for beating the freakishness out of the little bastard. He firmly believed that as long as they made sure to keep the boy as downtrodden as possible, he wouldn't get any fancy ideas about hurting any of them.

So Vernon started behaving harshly with the boy. When he was four, they moved the runt into the cupboard under the stairs and threatened him with the cane until he agreed to sleep quietly. They put him to work in the kitchen, and while it took some time for the lazy bum to learn how to cook by the time he'd turned six he could cook a pretty tasty omelette.

Vernon also took special care to keep the brat as miserable as possible. He rarely referred to the boy by his given name, rarely gave him anything more than a few morsels to eat, frequently used his belt and his father's old cane when the brat tried to act stubborn, followed by locking him up in his cupboard for the night, without any food.

Wouldn't do to have the freak getting ideas above his station now, would it?

So obsessed was Vernon with keeping his family "normal" that it completely missed his mind that he was dealing with a young, impressionable young child. Indeed, by the time the lad turned seven he had completely forgotten that the boy was even human.

It was a mistake that would go on to cost him everything.

* * *

 _ **30 October, 1988**_

On that night he'd been in a particularly foul mood.

His firm had just lost a major client early in the day, and his Senior Manager had spent the entire afternoon taking out his displeasure on Vernon. The Dursley patriarch had been in a towering temper since then, venting his spleen on his hapless subordinates, automobile drivers on the way home and even senile old Mr Hobbs of Number 10.

Now as he sat in the living room, nursing a glass of stiff whiskey, he ruminated upon the really bad day he'd had, and about how much he'd give to stick his foot right up his Senior Manager's arse. . .

Until a loud crash resounded from the front door.

"Muuuuuuum! Daaaaaaaad!"

The wailing of his precious Dudley caused him to reflexively jump to his feet. After taking a few moments to steady himself (he'd emptied half the bottle, after all) he lumbered into the porch.

"Wha' happened?" he slurred, as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

His wife who was busy cooing over their child merely wrinkled her nose. Dudley, who was sobbing with his head buried in his mum's bosom, looked up beseechingly at his father. "That _freak_ did it!"

"I don't do anything!" his nephew cried.

"Shaddup!" Vernon yelled at the panicking child. "M'boy. ." he turned back to his son. "What did he do?"

"He. . pushed me. . ." Dudley sniffled. "I was just getting down the stairs, and he pushed me. . ." he grabbed his slightly scratched knee and wailed theatrically.

"You fell on your own!" Harry cried. "I didn't even _touch_ you! You tripped on your shoelaces and fell on your own!"

Dudley just wailed louder.

"You ungrateful little freak. . ." Vernon growled, his piggy eyes fixed on the small boy trembling near the door.

"Uncle Vernon, I didn't. . !"

"We took you in." He advanced upon the child. "We took you in when your kind dumped you like garbage. And this is how you repay us?"

"I didn't. ." the boy was practically hysterical. "I swear, Uncle Vernon. . ."

But Vernon heard none of his pleas. Blood pounded in his ears as his mind went back to his boss's abuse from earlier in the day. All the rage, all the frustration, all the helpless anger he felt at being talked down to like that came pouring forth like a tidal wave, completely overwhelming his sense of reason.

"FREAK!" he roared and charged the boy like an angry bull. His massive bulk sent the frail eight-year-old flying into the wall. He then reached out and grabbed the child by the front of his oversized shirt and started slapping him viciously.

"You filthy freak!" he bellowed, slapping him again and again. "Filthy, filthy, filthy freak. . ."

The boy screamed his denials, begging him to stop. His shrill voice getting on his nerves, Vernon closed his massive hand into a fist and started pounding the boy into a pulp.

Even Petunia and Dudley were screaming now, the former urging him to calm down and the latter egging him on. The cacophony of their combined voices only served to drive him further up the wall.

Then Vernon felt a sharp pain in his fist as one of the brat's sharp teeth cut into his skin.

And he lost it completely.

"FREAK!" He bellowed even louder, grabbing the helpless child by his messy hair and ramming his head into the wall, again and again. "Dirty rotten stinking. . !"

"VERNON STOP!"

Petunia's loud scream finally got through to his mind. Slowly, as if in a trance, he turned around to look at his family.

"Vernon. . ." Petunia looked like she was going was going to be sick. "What. . . what are you doing. . ?"

Vernon only blinked in confusion at her tone. There was none of the warmth he was used to hearing, only a mixture of fear and revulsion. Even his son, who had been jumping around a few moments ago, was now cowering behind his mother, shooting him a look of sheer terror.

Slowly he turned back his gaze to the boy, and promptly dropped him in shock.

The boy looked. . . terrible. His head was bleeding profusely, his green eyes staring blankly ahead; his face had been smashed into a pulp and broken teeth were lying everywhere. Worse, he was slowly bleeding from the ears, nose and mouth as twitched slightly on the ground.

"Oh Vernon. ." Petunia clamped her hands over her mouth in horror. "Oh Vernon. . what have you done!?"

"I-I didn't do anything. ." Vernon blustered, stepping back from the rapidly widening pool of blood. "I didn't. . I didn't mean to hurt him. . ."

"I swear!" he cried at the disbelieving expression on his wife's face. He was trying very hard to not look at his hands drenched in blood. "I swear, Petunia. . I. . ."

For a few moments they stared at the convulsing boy in shocked silence. Then Petunia spoke. "We should. . we should call the doctor. . ."

"No!" Vernon shouted. "We can't. . we can't call a doctor, we. ."

"We have to!" Petunia exclaimed. "Vernon, look at him!" He'll. . ."

"He's fine!" Vernon said wildly. "He's absolutely fine, alright?" He froze when he heard his son whimpering. "Dudley, go to your room."

He only whimpered harder.

"I SAID GO TO YOUR ROOM, DUDLEY!"

The boy scrambled up the stairs, and disappeared in a flash.

"Vernon!" Petunia exclaimed.

"Shut up, Pet! I'm trying to think," he snapped, pacing feverishly from side to side.

"What are you _talking_ about?" Petunia goggled at him. "What's there to think!? Vernon, we have to get him to a doctor!"

"Don't be daft!" Vernon snarled. "If we take him to the hospital they'll start asking questions. They might even call the _bobbies_ , Pet! We. . we need to keep this quiet."

"Keep this quiet?" His wife asked faintly. "How?"

Vernon racked his brains furiously. "You go upstairs and put Dudley to sleep. I'll. . I'll put him in the cupboard and clean up over here."

"In the cupboard!? Vernon, he needs a hospital. . ."

"He's a freak, Petunia," Vernon said firmly. "Weirdos like him recover faster than us normal people. He'll be right and dandy by tomorrow morning. You'll see."

Petunia merely gaped at him.

"Pet, please," he moved closer to her. "If we take him to the hospital then everyone will know. The neighbours will know, his _kind_ will know. . . and that old man. What do think will happen if that old man finds out?"

"But. . ."

"They'll come after Dudley, that's what! I'm telling you, if they find out what happened to the boy, they'll come after our _son_. We can't let that happen, Pet!"

Petunia slowly wiped her ashen face. "Then. . what do we do?"

"We put him in the cupboard," Vernon declared. "He'll be fine! Remember that time Marge' mutt chased him up the tree and he fell and broke his arm. He was alright the next morning, wasn't he?"

"But. . ."

"He'll be fine," Vernon repeated. "Now go put Dudley to sleep. I'll. . clean up here. Go, Pet. Go."

Petunia merely stared at him blankly.

"GO!"

Vernon waited until she had disappeared up the stairs before stepping forward and gingerly lifting the boy out of the small pool of blood. He carried the limp, but breathing body of his nephew and hoisted him into the cupboard, locking it tight from the outside.

He then strode back into the living room. Disregarding the glass, he picked up the half-empty bottle of whiskey and drank greedily. After some of the color returned to his face, he took deep breaths and willed himself to think straight.

He instinctively knew what he had to do. Having watched enough shows on the telly to know he had to get rid of the evidence, Vernon strode over to the supply cabinet in the kitchen.

For the next forty minutes, he scrubbed every inch of the front hall. He used the strongest possible disinfectant on hand and soaked it into the carpet. Then he stripped off his clothes, threw them all into a garbage bag (which he would burn later), took a hot bath and went upstairs to join his wife in bed.

Vernon then proceeded to swallow a few sleeping pills and lay in his bed, trying his hardest to not focus upon the fact that he'd nearly killed his nephew. He told himself that the boy was a freak, that he'd deserved what he got; he told himself that nobody would suspect anything, that the boy was just an unwanted bastard that had been dumped on their doorstep; he told himself that it was all going to be okay, that the freak would just heal himself and be back on his feet the next morning, mooching off of Vernon's hard earned money. . .

He felt the pills kick in and stifled a yawn. It was fine. Everything was going to be fine.

What Vernon Dursley did not know was that by the time he'd fallen asleep, his nephew had already succumbed to his injuries inside the cupboard under the stairs.

His corpse simply lay there. . . cold and abandoned, his eyes staring blankly into the void. As lonely in death as he had been in life.

And then Harry Potter breathed again.

* * *

 _ **28 November, 1988**_

"That dirty little freak. . ." Vernon mumbled, glaring down at the burnt crisps of bacon on his plate.

"It's the third time this week," Petunia said quietly.

Vernon felt his ire rise. "That ungrateful little bugger! Does he even know how much bacon _costs_ these days? Maybe it's time I showed him. . ." He started to rise from his chair, only to be stopped by a slightly-panicked looking Petunia.

"Vernon, you mustn't!"

"Why not?" He looked at his wife in confusion. Wasn't she always supportive of his attempts to discipline the brat? Why was she protecting him _now_!?

"That boy needs a good hiding to remind him not to waste food, Pet!"

"Vernon. . I-I think we should leave him alone. . ."

"But why!?"

In response, Petunia got to his feet and slowly beckoned him towards the living room. She slowly drew the curtains apart and pointed into their front garden. "Look!"

Vernon narrowed his piggy eyes and peered into the begonia bushes. He could make out the small form of his nephew curled into the foetal position on the earth, clutching his head and rocking back and forth slowly.

"What is the bloody buggering hell is that boy doing!?" he exclaimed, his voice rising with every word at the unnatural display his nephew was putting on.

"He's been like this since the last month," Petunia whispered. "Most of the times he's just lying like that in the garden or his cupboard."

"The teachers!?" Vernon's blood began to boil at the thought of those nosy blighters from Dudley's school poking their noses into his family's business.

"His teachers. . they say the boy's not acting proper, Vernon. . ."

"If he's doing any unnaturalness at that school, I swear. . !"

"No! It's not-it's not. . _that_!" Petunia cried. "It's the way he acts. They say sometimes he just stares ahead in class, completely blank. . . not even reacting when someone hits him. They say he doesn't respond to his name when they call him, and this one time he nearly walked off the playground onto the road. . ."

"Pet. . what are you talking about?"

His wife wrung her hands together in an agitated manner. "I've seen him do the same things at home, Vernon. Last week, and the other day I saw him struggling to crack open an egg . . ike he's never been in a kitchen before. Sometimes he just sits in the backyard and keeps muttering to himself. He doesn't respond to Dudley at all, some days he stares at me like I'm a stranger. It's like. . it's like he's not even _there_ sometimes!"

Vernon was honestly stumped by this. In all the years they had raised the boy he'd never seen anything like this before.

He decided to deal with it the usual way. "Maybe I should go have a few words with him," he announced grimly, already looking around for his belt.

"Vernon, no!" Petunia screamed. "Haven't you been listening to a _word_ I said?"

"Come on, Pet! All that boy needs is a good hiding!"

"It's not that simple! Vernon. . Vernon that boy has been acting this way since the last month. Don't you understand?"

"What are you. . ?" Horrified realization finally hit the man as he stared at his hysterical wife. "Are you saying. . . _I_ did this?"

Petunia licked her lips slowly. "I was watching the telly the other day. They said that sometimes an injury to the head can cause. . brain damage. . ."

"Brain damage!? Come on, Pet! I didn't hit him that hard," Vernon scoffed, though his denial sounded hollow to even his own ears. "Besides, he's a freak, right? I'm sure his other freak friends can simply heal him up. ."

"It's not that simple, Vernon!" Petunia moaned. "Even those freaks have their limits! I remember. . _her_ telling me," her face twisted unpleasantly as it always did at the sour memory of her worthless sister, "that their medicine has its limits. They can cure physical injuries, but even they can't do anything about the mind. . ."

"It's why I never stopped you when you got too rough with him before. No matter what we do, those freaks will be able to reverse it with their unnaturalness. But if we hurt his brain. ."

Vernon shifted uncomfortably on his feet. This was the first time in his life that he was truly at a loss on how to deal with the brat. "Maybe I should give him a thrashing, anyway," he suggested. "For all we know he could be pretending. . ."

"Vernon, no!" Petunia shrieked, throwing herself around him. "Haven't you been listening to me? We might have hurt him permanently! And when those freaks come here three years later to pick him up, if they find out what you did. . what _we_ did. . what do you think they'll do to us?"

Vernon immediately went as white as a sheet.

"They'll hurt us, Vernon!" Petunia was openly weeping now. "You heard what that old man said: the boy's _famous_ in their world. If they find out what we did, they'll hurt us. They'll hurt Dudley! They. ."

"There, there. ." Vernon consoled his sobbing wife. "It'll all be fine, Pet. You're just overreacting. We'll be fine!"

"No!" she exclaimed, breaking away from their hug. "Vernon, this has to stop. We have to leave the boy alone from now!"

"But. ."

"Swear to me, Vernon!" There was a wild look in her eyes now. "Swear to me you'll stay away from him!"

"I. . ."

"Swear to me!"

Vernon sighed, unable to argue with his hysterical wife any longer. "All right. I'll keep away from him. But if does any freakishness in this house. ."

"Then we'll just lock him up in his cupboard," Petunia said firmly. "We'll lock him up without any food, but we're not going to touch him anymore. We'll tell Dudley as well."

"Fine. Whatever you say, dear."

Petunia gently leaned into his embrace. "I'm scared, Vernon," she whispered. "I'm so scared. . ."

"It'll be fine," Vernon consoled her. "It'll all work out, Pet. You'll see."

He had no idea how wrong he was.

* * *

 _ **25 February 1990**_

"Ripper! Ripper! Oh my baby! Ripper!"

Vernon Dursley stood rooted to the spot, unable to believe what his eyes were seeing.

Ripper the bulldog swayed gently in the breeze as he hung from the rafters of their home, clearly dead. His sister Marge stood wailing in the middle of the backyard, half-carried by Petunia while Dudley blinked owlishly at the dead dog.

For the first time in a very long time Vernon could honestly say he was completely and utterly stumped. For the life of him he could not understand how or why this had happened.

How on earth did Ripper manage to get up that high? Who hung him there? How did they manage it without attracting any attention? How did they finish off the mutt without him making a sound or waking them up?

And most important of all, _why_ did they go so far?

"You. . . !"

Vernon was startled out of his contemplation by Marge's angry yell. He turned around to see Marge pointing a fat pudgy finger at the door, where his nephew stood silently.

" _You_ did this, boy! I know you did! You killed my little baby!"

"Now, Marge. ." Petunia said soothingly, throwing an anxious look at her husband. "You know that's not possible."

"He did it! I know he did! That little blighter is a monster!" Marge spat, practically foaming at the mouth.

"Marge, calm down," Vernon said slowly, throwing a sideways glance at the boy who merely stood in the back door, not saying a single word.

But his sister was beside reason. "I'll kill you!" she screamed. "I'll bloody kill you. . !"

And she broke free from Petunia's grip and charged the boy.

It was pure luck that Vernon happened to be standing close to her path, and thus was able to intersect Marge before she could physically attack the boy. For a few minutes he and his sister wrestled on the spot, Vernon being forced to use every last ounce of his strength to hold the mad woman back.

"Let go of me! He killed my Ripper! I'll kill him! I'll kill him. . !"

Panting heavily and his face flushed red with exertion, Vernon slowly pulled his sister back. He chanced a glance at the boy's face and his eyes widened in shock.

He'd expected to see a frightened child cowering near the door, he'd expected to hear the brat whining and protesting his innocence. . .

But the look he saw in Harry Potter's green eyes was one that would go on to haunt him until his dying day.

* * *

Vernon gasped as he startled awake in the dead of the night, sheets soaked with sweat.

He looked around wildly, his heart-beat only coming back to normal when he saw Petunia snoring gently beside him. He slowly got off the bed and made his way out the bedroom.

The same dream. He'd been having the same dream for the last two months since Marge's last visit.

It was always the same thing. Vernon would hear Marge screaming and go around to the backyard, to the same spot where he'd found the bulldog hanging from the rafters. . .

Only it wasn't a dog he saw. In his dream, the corpse he found hanging several feet in the air always belonged to Petunia, or his son Dudley.

Vernon shivered violently, drawing his dressing gown closer around his bulk as he recalled the empty dead eyes of his beloved family.

 _It's just a nightmare. Just a bloody nightmare. . ._

But it didn't work. No matter how many time he repeated this to himself, it didn't make the slightest difference to his fears.

Mainly because Vernon knew that the dream wasn't just a dream. It was a warning of a very _real_ possibility.

He shuddered once again as he recalled the look in the freak's eyes when Marge had rushed at him. No fear, no sorrow, no remorse. . there was nothing.

His eyes were cold, proud. . . like he had absolutely no regret for what he'd done. Vernon had seen those eyes before. On the telly, whenever they showed all those criminals and hoodlums who killed lots of people. What did they call them? Serial murderers or something?

Vernon had to admit (however grudgingly) that in _that_ moment, the boy had seriously terrified him. He could bet his life's savings that had Marge managed to get her hands on him that day, he'd have had to bury her alongside her dog. It was why he'd fought so hard to restrain his sister that day; because he feared for her safety much more than he did for the freak.

Vernon shook his head roughly. Honestly, what was wrong with him? The freak was just a skinny little runt. What did Vernon have to fear from someone like _that_?

 _He won't be a runt, forever. He'll grow up some day. . ._

And right there, according to Vernon, lay the crux of the problem. For now the boy was just a kid, but he would not stay a kid forever. Sooner or later that freak would grow up, and then he would come after him and his family. No matter what Vernon tried to do he would never learn his lesson. His kind never did.

Vernon wasn't really that concerned about his own safety. There was nothing that little bugger could do to harm him even on his worst day. But Petunia and his little tyke were another matter entirely. Neither of them had it in them to hurt a fly, so it would be up to Vernon to protect them both.

But could he? Could he really protect them both _forever_? When all was said and done Vernon knew he was just a normal man. But that boy. . he was a freak. And those freaks had all kinds of strange powers. Who knows what they were really capable of?

Vernon's mind worked furiously as he tried to come up with a way to keep his family safe. He supposed he could send the boy away to St Brutus' Secure Center, but that was still a temporary solution. That freak could break out easily.

Or maybe he could wait until the boy went away to that. . _school_ of his. No, no that wouldn't do either. That old man had mentioned that the boy would need to stay with them until he reached adulthood, which meant that the freak would be coming back. And he wouldn't come back alone.

 _He'll have friends. Even more freaks!_

Vernon felt his heart clench with fear. If that freak was so bold now, then he would become much bolder once he got a few friends on his side. Between all their freakish powers, they could make life hell for his family.

They would kill them! Or they would do something much worse. . .

 _But what do I do? How can I protect us from something like that!?_

And then it came to him: there was one way. One way which would ensure his family's protection from that unnaturalness forever.

The freak would have to die.

If Vernon were honest with himself, this wasn't the first time he'd considered this idea. In the last several years he had thought of putting down that son of a bitch more than once, but that was mostly when he was drunk. It was only since the incident with Marge's dog that he'd started to think about this while sober.

That boy was dangerous. He was a freak with all kinds of unnatural powers, an abomination of nature; but most important of all he was a remorseless criminal. Vernon simply knew that one of these days that crazy bugger would stab some honest hardworking person to death in an alley somewhere. He. . .

"Uncle Vernon?"

Vernon nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked around wildly, realizing that his relentless pacing had somehow brought him into the kitchen; right where the freak in question was standing quietly.

"What are you doing here, boy?" he hissed, fighting to keep his heart under control.

The filthy urchin simply raised the rag in his hand. "Washing the dishes."

"At this time of the night!?" Vernon asked incredulously.

The boy merely shrugged, continuing to stare at him silently, and Vernon had to fight to keep himself from fidgeting under his gaze. Since the past year the blasted boy had developed this really unnerving habit of staring blankly at other people.

 _More unnaturalness. . ._

A sudden thought erupted inside Vernon's skull. Could the freak read minds!? Could he perhaps have _heard_ Vernon plotting about his death?

No, no that was impossible. Even freaks did not have such powers! He was just being paranoid.

With a great deal of effort Vernon straightened himself. "Go to bed," he said gruffly. "You can do it tomorrow morning."

"But Aunt Petunia said. . ."

"I don't care what she said!" Vernon snapped. "You can get up early tomorrow morning and finish your work. Now back to the cupboard with you!"

The boy quietly obeyed, and Vernon waited until he'd disappeared under the stairs before he exhaled in relief. He then marched towards the sink and poured himself a glass of water.

If he'd needed any more confirmation that he was doing the right thing, then this was it. Vernon had noted how the boy had been completely unfazed by his subtle threat a few minutes ago. It was obvious that the freak did not fear him anymore.

And this worried him. After all, if that bloody blighter could be so bold when he was barely ten, then how much bolder would he become once he reached adulthood?

Vernon actually shuddered at the thought.

No, no the freak would have to go. And since Vernon never believed in leaving things half-done, he was going to work to get rid of the freak permanently.

If he felt the slightest twinge of guilt over murdering a child, it was swiftly silenced. Murder was for humans, after all; and the boy was a freak.

What he was doing wasn't murder. It was extermination.

* * *

It was a whole fortnight later that Vernon put his plan to action.

He'd barricaded himself into Dudley's second bedroom, ostensibly to fix the broken study table in there. But that wasn't all he had doing.

Vernon was also fashioning a simple five by four wooden box on the side. A box which was to shortly become the freak's coffin.

He'd had it all planned out. Petunia and Dudley had gone out for a weekend shopping spree, followed by tea at her friend Marjorie's place. They would not be back before dinner.

Vernon would take his own sweet time making the wooden coffin. Then he'd wait until they'd all had dinner and gone to bed before going down to the freak's cupboard.

He would suffocate the little urchin with a pillow (like they showed on the telly), pack him up in the box and drive down to the nearby lake. Then he'd load the box down with some stones, hammer it shut with nails and dump it into the water.

Then came the real genius of the plan. Vernon would wait two days before going down to the local bobbies and reporting that his nephew was missing. He'd make sure to mention that they boy was a delinquent and trouble maker, and ran away because he didn't want to do his chores.

Seeing as there were plenty of cases like this every year, Vernon seriously doubted if the bobbies would do anything more than file a report. They most certainly would not think to look at the bottom of a lake.

And even if by some miracle they did find the body, so what? The whole neighbourhood knew how much of a respectable family the Dursleys really were. No matter who the police asked, the only answer they'd get would be that he and Petunia were good people, and that the boy was nothing more than a lazy, no-good freak who only got what was coming to him in the end.

Besides, Vernon greatly doubted that the police would trouble honest and hard-working citizens like _him_ over the death of a good-for-nothing boy like that. He wasn't even too concerned about the brat's kind finding out about this. Oh sure they would ask questions, but Petunia had specifically mentioned that the boy's kind had no legal power in their world. As long as Vernon kept his wits about him, he'd be fine.

He mentally patted himself on the back. A most brilliant plan indeed!

The sudden sound of the telephone ringing caused him to frown. Dusting his hands off, Vernon clamped the handsaw to the belt on his waist and hurried off to the living room.

He reached the top of the stairs and made to descend, only to feel something push him hard in the back.

Vernon yelled as he flew down the stairs, landing with a thunderous crash at the bottom. A sudden searing pain shot through his right leg and he screamed even louder.

Blearily he blinked and looked at his right foot. What he saw nearly made him pass out in shock.

His handsaw had embedded itself cleanly into his right thigh. Vernon groaned in pain and reached out to grip the saw, attempting to pull it out of the bleeding wound. . .

And promptly wished he hadn't.

The saw had barely nudged a little before the wound began to bleed even more profusely. Vernon cursed himself for having forgotten his basic first aid training. Removing the saw would only lead him to bleed out faster!

He had to get help.

"Help!" he bellowed, putting as much energy as he could into his voice. "Someone help me!"

But there was no response. Vernon belatedly realized that it was a Saturday afternoon, and it was extremely unlikely that anyone would hear him in a sleepy little suburb like Privet Drive.

Then something hit him. The phone. . . it was still ringing!

Slowly Vernon began to crawl down the last few stairs, every small movement causing the sharp tool to dig in deeper into the wound and shoot even more pain down his terribly injured leg. He dragged himself across the rough carpet, the agony of his leg nearly blinding him.

But he had to get there. The phone was his only hope! He wouldn't last long with the way he was bleeding!

A sudden sound from the top of the stairs drew his attention. Vernon raised his head, and for the first time in his life felt actual joy at the sight of his nephew.

"Boy. . ." he croaked. "Boy. . help me. . ."

The young lad slowly made his way down the stairs. Stepping around the steadily widening pool of blood, he came to a halt beside his uncle.

"The phone. . ." Vernon whispered. "Get. . the phone, boy. . ."

The child did not move. He merely stood there, staring at him blankly.

"Get help. . . please. . ."

Then he smiled. "You know, I never imagined that I'd ever hear you say the word ' _please_ ', Uncle Vernon," he said softly.

The boy's smile nearly made Vernon wet himself with fear. It was cold, chilling. . as though he were enjoying a private joke only he could understand.

"Please. . ." Vernon begged. "Get help. . ." He reached out with one hand beseechingly, trying to grab at the boy's foot. But the boy only took one step back, continuing to smile at him in that frightening way.

A sudden vision sprang into Vernon's mind. A memory from a year ago, when it was the boy who had been lying on the floor bleeding, while _he_ watched from the side.

And then Vernon finally understood. He was a dead man.

"Please. . . Harry. . ." He was openly weeping now. "Help. . . I don't. . . want to die. . ."

The boy moved forward suddenly, causing Vernon's hopes to rise. But his heart sank just as quickly when he realized that the boy was walking away from the living room, towards the front door.

"Please. . ." Vernon pleaded, his vision growing dimmer as he lost more blood. "Harry. . help me. . ."

His nephew paused at the front door to give him one last look. "Goodbye, Uncle Vernon."

Then he left, locking the front door behind him. Vernon Dursley shuddered in pain on the floor as the blood began to pool underneath his body.

It took him an entire agonizing hour to die.

* * *

Petunia slowly made her way into the house, eyes downcast, her face marked with tear tracks.

Vernon was gone. Vernon was gone!

She still couldn't believe this was really happening.

Petunia's mind went over the horrifying day in question, when she and Dudley had returned home from a shopping trip to find his cold body lying near the stairs.

Blood loss, the doctors said. The saw hanging from his belt had cut into his thigh when he fell from the stairs, severing his femoral artery. It had not been a quick or easy death.

What made everything more terrible was the fact that it was Petunia's phone call that had caused Vernon to come down the stairs in the first place! She remembered being annoyed with him back then for making her wait so long.

The very idea that her beloved husband was bleeding to death on the floor while she had been tapping her foot impatiently at the shopping mall made her want to throw up.

To make matters worse, Marge turned up at the funeral (which Petunia had to organize on her own) completely drunk out of her mind, loudly proclaiming to whoever listened that Petunia had murdered her brother for the money.

Petunia had never been more outraged in her life. She had loved Vernon. _Loved_ him. Whatever his faults had been, to her he had always been the ideal man. He had always treated his family well, always been completely honest in his dealings with her. The very idea that Marge could _think_ something like that was enough to make her blood boil.

Fortunately, the odious woman was forcefully evicted from the funeral when she threw a bottle of whiskey at Petunia's head. Though incredibly shaken, it did give her a small amount of satisfaction to watch Marge being dragged away by two nearby police officers.

She sighed softly. How did it all come to this? Where had life gone so wrong? What had she and Vernon ever done so wrong that they. . .

She froze as she entered the living room. Sitting on the nearby sofa was none other than the bane of her existence.

"You. . ." she hissed.

"Me," Harry agreed.

"What do you think you are doing here?" Petunia spat, marching into the living room.

"Waiting for you. We need to talk."

"Get out!" she screamed. "Get out, now!"

She didn't _care_ what the bobbies said. She didn't care if the boy hadn't been in the house at the time of Vernon's death. As far as she was concerned, _everything_ was his fault! Everything bad that ever happened in her life was because of freaks like him, and this time was no different!

But the boy was completely unfazed by her anger. "We need to talk," he repeated.

"I have nothing to say to you!" She was breathing deeply, her fists clenched. "Get out!"

"No."

Petunia felt like she was about to pop a blood vessel. "I DON'T CARE! GET OUT NOW BEFORE I. . . ."

She never got to finish the sentence as Harry simply sighed and gestured with his hands. Petunia felt an invisible force slam into her with such strength that she was lifted right off her feet and crashed into the sofa.

She gaped at him, completely shaken. "H-How. . ?"

"A powerful enough wizard can perform small acts of wandless magic from time to time," he shrugged.

Her blood froze in terror. "H-How do you know. . ."

"About what? Magic?" Harry gave her a feral smile. "Or that I'm a wizard? Or that I'm strong enough to perform _wandless_ magic?"

He got up from his seat and slowly approached her. "Or that my mum and dad were magicals who gave their lives fighting the worst kind of evil? My mum and dad, who _you_ said were a bunch of worthless drunks who got killed in a car crash?"

Harry leaned forward. "Tell me, Petunia. What were my parents' names?"

"Wh-What?"

"Their _names_ , woman," he snarled coldly. "What were their names?"

She shivered slightly at the dangerous look in his eyes. "L-L-Lily. . and J-J-James. . ."

"Exactly. My mother was Lily Potter nee Evans, Hogwarts batch of 1971. My father was James Potter, Hogwarts batch of 1971."

"Head Girl and Head Boy. Considered to be two of the smartest people of their generation. Champions of the Light. Two of the very few magicals to have gone toe-to-toe with the Dark Lord Voldemort and survived. Two people who gave their very _lives_ to end the First Wizarding War of Britain."

"And _you_ told me they died in a car crash!" he bellowed. His emerald irises glowed with power, his eyes bulged with unrestrained anger and hatred as wave of pure energy emanated from his body. Petunia gasped and clutched at her throat as the very air in the room began to grow denser, various objects around the living room shuddering uncontrollably. . .

And then just as suddenly as everything started, it stopped. Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and when he opened them again his face was once again set in a blank mask.

"You've lied to me about a lot of things, Petunia."

The woman merely whimpered, scooting towards the edge of the sofa as far away from him as she could. "Y-you. . you killed Vernon. . ."

"I did." Petunia's jaw dropped at the cold manner in which he admitted his guilt. "I'm not going to lie to you. I killed your husband, and I don't regret it for even a minute."

"B-but. . why?"

"Why?" He slowly perched himself on the edge of the coffee table, his eyes boring into his aunt's. "You mean apart from the fact that he made my life a living hell since I could remember? How about the fact that he was planning to kill me?"

"Lies! Vernon would _never_. . ."

"He did," Harry interrupted her. "He was planning to kill me the exact same day I killed him. If it's physical evidence you're looking for, you only have to look at the five-by-four box he was machining that day. But it doesn't matter. I don't have to justify myself to you."

A part of Petunia's brain that wasn't gibbering in pain realized that something was very, very wrong with her nephew. Those were not the eyes of a barely ten old boy. His manner of speech, his body language, that cold confidence, the nonchalant way he spoke of murdering her husband. . . no child could possibly behave that way.

"Wh-Who are you?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You're not. . _him_. You're not H-Harry. You c-c-can't be him." Her voice grew slightly louder. "Answer me. Who are you!?"

The boy merely gave her a crooked grin. "Not bad. I see you have _some_ brains, after all."

"You're right, though. I'm not Harry. You see, Harry Potter is dead. _You_ killed him, Petunia."

"What!?" she squawked. "I did no such. . ."

"You did," he interrupted her. "The day you stood back and let your husband beat him like a dog, the day you silently watched when your filthy spawn and his lowlife friends tormented him was the day you slowly started to kill him. You murdered his innocence when you started treating him like your household slave, you destroyed his childhood when you threw him into that cupboard and starved him like an animal." He leaned forward, green eyes boring into hers. "Vernon may have dealt the final blow, but _you_ Petunia. . . you're the one who _really_ killed him."

She flinched at the venom in his voice. "Then w-who are you? What are you?"

" _What_ am I? That's a very good question." He nodded solemnly. "You could say I'm justice. You could say I'm vengeance. You could say I'm what you get when the chickens come home to roost, when the time comes for a person to be answer for their crimes. And you, my dear _aunt_ ," he sneered, "have a _lot_ to answer for."

Petunia was so terrified that she honestly didn't understand a single word about his rambling. The one thing that did register, however was his mention of her son. "D-Dudley? Where is he?"

"Oh, he's asleep in his room upstairs," Harry said conversationally. "Whether or not he ever wakes up again though depends on how honestly you answer my questions."

He was being completely serious, that much she could tell. "What d-d-you want to know?" she asked in a resigned voice.

The boy reached into the pocket of his tattered pants and pulled out a letter. "Tell me about this."

The blood drained from Petunia's face as she recognized the folded sheaf of parchment. "Wh-Where did you get this?"

"Details, Petunia. Irrelevant details. Now," his hawk-like gaze bore further into hers, "I believe you were about to tell me everything about this letter."

Slowly, haltingly Petunia explained everything. She told him about the Halloween of 1981, about finding him on the doorstep with that letter, about being forced to take him in. . . .

Harry listened intently. When she was finished he simply shook his head in wonder and said, "You couldn't tell the truth to even save your son's life, could you?"

"Wh-What? Petunia squawked. "But-but I told you everything. . !"

"You left out something important." He reached into his pants and pulled out a sheaf of letters. "Recognize these?"

Petunia nearly had a heart attack.

"One thousand pounds," he whispered, waving the bank statements in her face. "One thousand pounds deposited every month in your account for child care. _My_ care."

"That's-That's not true!" Petunia shrieked. "The money is from our investments! We. . ."

"Don't lie to me, Petunia," Harry said dangerously. "There is nothing you could hope to hide from me. Nothing!"

She stifled a small scream of pain as the pressure began to build behind her eyes. A memory, long forgotten, swam to the surface of her mind. A memory of her and Vernon arguing with an old man, baby Harry playing at his feet. . .

Just as suddenly it was over, and once again she found herself facing the older version of her nephew.

"So Albus Dumbledore did in fact pay you folks. His own money no less," he mused, sounding almost surprised and even slightly impressed. "Mum did say there was more to the old coot than what met the eye. . ."

"What-What are you talking about?" Petunia looked at him as though he had lost his mind. "Your mother's dead!"

"I am aware of that, thank you," Harry responded coldly. "But even dead, she's done a much better job of looking after me than you did all this time."

He began to slowly pace from side to side. "My mum knew she wasn't going to survive the war, but she was determined to make sure I did. She also knew there was a good chance that _some_ people," he threw his aunt a dirty look, "would do their best to exploit me. So she decided to take precautions."

"Tell me, Petunia. . did you know that my mum kept a detailed record of all the time she spent in the Wizarding world? Oh yes, _very_ detailed records. By the time I was born she had a huge collection of journals that contained everything she'd ever known about the world of magic. And she knew quite a lot."

He stopped pacing. "She bequeathed all her knowledge to me on my ninth birthday. It's how I found out about my parents, it's how I found out about my heritage; it's how I was able to develop my powers, to come so far that no child my age could possibly hope to match me."

He turned his gaze upon his aunt once again, causing her to flinch violently. "I have only one question I need an answer to Petunia: why?"

He slowly approached her quivering form. "Why did you lie to me? Why did you raise me to believe that my parents were worthless degenerates? Why did you act as though as I was a burden upon you your family when you had more than enough to provide me the bare necessities?"

"Why did you destroy my childhood? Why did you hide my heritage from me when you _knew_ that I was a magical just like your sister?"

The mention of her dead sister caused Petunia's temper to spike suddenly. "Knew!" she shrieked. "Knew! Of course I knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter and disappeared off to that-that school-and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was - a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!"

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. All the bitterness and hatred festering insider her, all the anger she'd been holding back for years came tumbling out as rage overran her sense of self-preservation.

"Then she met that. . that _Potter_ at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as. . as. . _abnormal_ ; and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!"

A vicious slap caused her to fall against the sofa in surprise. "And that makes it alright for you to do what you did to me!?" Harry yelled. "Treating me like your slave, making me sleep inside a bloody cupboard, starving me and beating me like an animal. . all because of what? Because you were jealous of my mum!?"

"My mum's _dead_ , you pathetic sow! Dead! She's been dead for close to a decade and you _still_ can't let go of your hatred!? You actually tried to get back at a dead woman through her son, and you have the nerve to try and _justify_ it!?"

He leaned so close to her that they were practically nose-to-nose. "Tell me, Petunia: if your positions were reversed. . if it was you _who_ was dead, and my mum who had to raise Dudley, how do you think she would have treated your son?"

Petunia shrank away, trying her hardest not to meet those emerald eyes, so very similar to her sister's.

"Answer me!"

She swallowed and hung her head in shame. "S-She would have. . Lily w-would have. . raised him like her own."

There it was, the truth in all its naked glory. The one thing Petunia had never thought of all those years, the one she hadn't wanted to even _consider_ was the fact that Lily would never have treated Dudley the way she'd treated Harry. Whatever her faults had been, her sister had always been incredibly protective of the ones she cared for. . something that even Petunia acknowledged deep inside her heart.

A feral smile spread over the boy's face. "And that, my dear _Tuney_ , is the reason why my mother will always be superior to you. It wasn't her looks, it wasn't her magic, it was because in _here_ ," he poked the older woman in her bony chest, "she was always a better person than you could ever be."

Petunia merely continued to avoid his gaze, tears streaming uncontrollably from her eyes. His mocking use of the affectionate nickname that Lily used so often cut into her like a knife.

Her nephew straightened up and moved away from her. "Make no mistake, if it hadn't been for those bloody wards outside our home, I would have dispatched you shortly after your husband. The only reason you're still alive is because your blood. . . _our_ shared blood. . . anchors those wards. Otherwise. . ." he shook his head dismissively.

But then something seemed to occur to him. "On the other hand," he said slowly. "The wards don't really need anyone else apart from you. I could still get rid of Dudley," a crazed smile spread over his face, "and then I could chain you up in the basement. See how you like living _my_ life for a few years."

It took Petunia a few moments to collect herself, trying her hardest to process what she'd just heard. But when she did finally put it all together, her face blanched.

"You wouldn't. . !" she gasped in horror.

"I would," he disagreed. "I really would. Trust me, killing that fat tub of lard you call your son would be no problem at all."

"No!" she screamed, throwing herself in front of him. "Harry please. . no!"

But her nephew was completely unmoved. "Give me a reason, Petunia," he whispered. "Give me _one_ bloody reason why I shouldn't carve up Dudley with a kitchen knife and feed him to Marge's remaining dogs. Give me _one_ reason why I shouldn't chain you up in the basement and make you watch while I flay your child alive, inch by bloody inch."

"I'll do anything. ." Petunia wailed. "Anything! Please. . just spare my Dudley. ."

He stepped closer, his eyes boring sharply into hers. "I want you to listen to me very carefully," he spoke. "From this day onwards, you and I will live under one roof, but we will have _nothing_ to do with each other. I will cook my own meals, I will sleep in a proper room, I will not speak nor will I ever willingly interact with the two of you. As payment for staying under your roof I will do the same amount of chores Dudley does, and you will not _dare_ to demand anything more from me."

"According to the letter from this Dumbledore bloke, the wards will last until I become an adult. That's seventeen in my world. Eight years is how long we have to suffer each others presence, and then we can go our separate ways. Until then, you and Dudley will keep your heads down and stay the bloody hell away from me! Understood?"

Petunia nodded dumbly, the part of her mind that was not gibbering in terror idly wondering just how a ten year old skinny child could possibly be so terrifying. His eyes were alight with an otherworldly glow, causing her to tremble harder.

"Your husband is dead, Petunia," he continued in that deathly whisper. "He's dead, and nothing that you do will ever bring him back. No policeman in the world will ever believe you if you accuse _me_ of murder, and none of my kind will lift a finger to help even if you _did_ get in touch with them somehow. I suggest you put any fanciful thoughts of revenge out of your mind. Immediately."

"Because if you don't," his voice became much louder, "I'll turn your Dinky-Diddydums into sausages and _feed_ them to you! Do you understand!?"

Petunia squeaked slightly, but nodded.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again his face was once again a blank mask. "Good. . . that's good."

"Now," he said in a brisk voice. "I suggest you get to work clearing out Dudley's second bedroom. I'll be moving in shortly. "In the meantime I have some shopping to do in London. You know, new clothes and stuff." He picked up Petunia's purse and emptied its contents, idly pocketing the fat wad of pounds. "And while we're on the subject, _Aunt Petunia,_ I suggest you open up a bank account and start depositing all the child-care money from the last nine years. Since you haven't actually used it properly, it's only fair to let me have it."

Petunia was aghast. "But. . but where will I get the money?"

"None of my concern," Harry said coldly. "You got a fat insurance pay-out from Vernon's company. Use it. Sell off the extra car, all those valuable knick-knacks you collected over the years, cancel all those expensive subscriptions. . . I don't _care_. But you won't keep anything you don't deserve." He narrowed his eyes at her. "I will allow you to continue using the money only when I actually _see_ some of the funds being used in my upkeep. Otherwise you can forget about it. Is that clear?"

Petunia only nodded slowly.

"Good. I'll be leaving now. Don't expect me before lunch. And Petunia," he stopped at the doorway to throw her a sharp look, "I don't have to tell you to keep quiet about all this, do I?"

Getting a shake of her head in response, Harry walked away. Petunia heard the sound of the front door slamming in a distance before she curled into a ball on the floor and wept.

She wept for the loss of her beloved husband, she wept for the complete destruction of her perfect life, she wept at the fact that she and her son would forever spend their lives looking over their shoulders in fear. . .

But there was no comfort to be found. Not in this life, and perhaps not even the next.

* * *

 **AN:** **Rant time.**

 **If there's one thing about canon that pisses me off, it's JKR's casual take on child abuse. As someone who has spent two years volunteering as a counselor for a Child Guidance Cell, I can tell you that there is no way in hell any kid will turn out as well-balanced as Harry appears to be in canon after undergoing _that_ level of abuse. With enough therapy, a child may recover from verbal abuse and physical harm, but they will almost NEVER recover from spending their formative years living inside a small closed space like a goddamn boot cupboard! In a way, what the Dursleys do to Harry in canon is a lot worse than physically hitting him.**

 **Vernon's behavior in this fic may seem a little over-the-top to some of you guys, but is actually quite consistent with a few abusive parents I have had the displeasure of meeting in the last couple of years. Plenty of them are absolutely unapologetic about the crap they inflict on their children, thinking in their own twisted way that they're actually doing right by their kids. I've also noted, and there's ton of research to back me up, that the worst kind physical abuse usually takes place when the adults are under the influence of alcohol and/or drugs.**

 **Petunia is another character that I absolutely despise. She and Snape are cut from the same cloth: both of them are completely obsessed with a dead woman (albeit for different reasons) and end up taking out their frustrations on a helpless child.**

 **But her greatest sin, in my opinion, is the way she lies to Harry about his parents being worthless drunks. That is something you DO NOT say to a child, even if his parents were goddamn serial killers! Children are incredibly impressionable at that age, and constantly telling a kid that his own parents were deadbeats can cause irreparable damage to his self-esteem.**

 **And this bitch gets to go off scot-free while good people like Tonks and Dobby die? WTF!?  
**

 **End of rant**

 **The secret of Lily's Notes will be revealed in later chapters. I figured that someone as pragmatic as Lily would have left something behind for her son, especially when she and James were already being hunted by Voldy.**

 **BTW, the prophecy isn't just a bunch of words in this fic. I will attempt to give it some actual meaning, while also offering a better explanation on how Harry survived Vernon's attack. I assure you it's not as simple as "He absorbed Voldemort's soul fragment, duh."  
**

 **Next up: Dumbledore's story continues, showing his** **transformation from idealist to political master. Also included is my attempt at rectifying the many plot-holes of canon regarding the Halloween of 1981, and his dealings with the Dursleys.** **  
**

 **Stay tuned :)**


	24. Phoenix Ascendant - II

**AN: This chapter turned out to be a hell of a lot longer than I though it would, so I split it into two halves.**

 **Hope you folks like it. And a Happy Halloween to everyone :)  
**

* * *

 ** _September 1947_**

The defeat of Gellert Grindelwald and the end of the war brought much joy and celebration to European magical society. The public lauded the end of an era of violence and anti-muggle propaganda and toasted the beginning of a new age. New treaties were made, more powers were given to the ICW, and Europe as a whole moved in a new direction.

But for Albus Dumbledore, newly appointed Headmaster of Hogwarts, member of the British Wizengamot and ICW representative, it was the beginning of another difficult chapter in his life.

He paced angrily from side to side. "I cannot believe this," he fumed. "The nerve of that man. . . after everything I've done. . !"

"Albus, will you please stop that?" Nicholas said without looking up from his newspaper. "That carpet is very old, and very valuable."

His student halted and turned his glare upon him. "My apologies for sullying your precious carpet with my feet, Nicholas," he snarked.

"Accepted."

"Nicholas," his wife said in a warning tone, before turning to the unusually short-tempered school teacher. "Albus, please. You need to calm down."

"Calm down!? How can you expect me to calm down after what that. . . that _man_ said to me!?"

"Refresh my memory: what was it that happened, exactly?"

Albus took a deep breath. "Arcturus Black dropped by my office to, presumably, congratulate me on my opening speech in the Wizengamot. He then proceeded to subtly mock me, claiming that I was talking about things I had no understanding of, and practically saying outright that someone of my. . . ancestry should not be entertaining ideas above his station."

His hands clenched into fists. "He had the gall to bring up my family, to bring up Ariana! He blackmailed me, Perenelle! He almost told me to my face that he would not hesitate to drag my sister's name through the mud if I didn't stop ' _spouting nonsense_ ' in the Wizengamot!"

"And this makes you angry?" Nicholas asked.

Albus looked at him in utter disbelief. "Oh no, it fills me with joy," he said sarcastically. "Of course it makes me angry! Who wouldn't be angered by such vile behavior!?"

"In that case, there is only one thing to be said." Nicholas Flamel finally shut his book and turned his attention to his student. "Welcome to politics, Albus."

"Excuse me?"

"What Nicholas is trying to say," Perenelle shot her husband a dirty look at his less-than-empathetic manner, "is that Lord Black was trying to get under your skin."

"And judging by your reaction he succeeded." Nicholas was completely unapologetic. "And frankly, what were you thinking making a speech like that?"

Albus was confused. "What exactly did I say that was so controversial?"

"Oh, I don't know, why don't you see for yourself?" Nicholas unfurled a copy of an older newspaper and read out from the section covering Albus' speech. "How's this: ' _those who possess the gift of magic should eschew the borders of nationality and ancestry and work together for the betterment of our world_ ' or how about ' _it is not what a man is born, but what he chooses to make of himself that decides his worth in society_ '?" He raised a single eyebrow. "Really, Albus?"

"I fail to understand how any of that is. . ."

"What did we tell you before you went to make your speech?"

"I believe your exact words were: 'Tone down the rhetoric a little, and avoid taking a strong stance this early in the game as far as possible'."

"And did you?"

"Certainly I did!" Albus puffed up in indignation. "I removed several parts of my speech and maintained as neutral a tone as possible. I even avoided the subject of increased cooperation with muggles like you suggested, despite my own feelings to the contrary."

Nicholas shook his head and tossed the paper aside. " _Merde_! If this is your idea of neutral, I would hate to see what you consider inflammatory."

"Nicholas, _mon cher_ , you are being too harsh," his wife chided. "He is a _professeur,_ not a politician. How can you expect him to get everything right on the first try?"

" _Bien, bien_. . . you are right," he sighed. "It seems his education is greatly lacking."

"My education!?" Albus asked in surprise.

"In politics," Nicholas explained. "You have too much to learn before you are ready to go around making speeches and backing laws."

"Fortunately, you have us to help you with that," Perenelle said brightly.

"I cannot possibly impose. . ."

"Nonsense," Nicholas waved his concerns aside. "After everything we have accomplished together, this would hardly be any trouble."

"Besides, all our centuries of experience needs to be passed down to someone, _n'est-ce pas_?" Perenelle smiled.

Albus stared at them in wonder. The significance of what they were offering was not lost on him. This was the legendary Flamel couple, two of the oldest and most reclusive magicals in the world, willingly offering the benefit of all their centuries of wisdom. He had counted himself blessed when Nicholas had agreed to mentor him all those years ago; but now he simply had no words to describe how much this gesture really meant to him.

For the first time in his life he wondered what he had done in his life to deserve the affection of such wonderful people.

"In that case," Albus straightened and bowed respectfully. "In that case, I would be honored to study under you both once again."

Both alchemists beamed at him.

* * *

And so it was that Albus Dumbledore began the second phase of his education.

Using Fawkes' flame traveling ability to its fullest, he dropped in at the Flamels' manor whenever he got an opportunity; and while it felt strange, going back to being a student after all these years, he would be lying if he said it wasn't enjoyable.

Nicholas was a difficult taskmaster. He brought forth his entire collection of political journals (which was large enough to fill the Great Hall at Hogwarts) and forced Albus to go through every single one of them. He taught Albus political history dating back from centuries, making him commit to memory every single noteworthy event in the seven hundred years and its impact on Wizarding Europe's political climate. He repeatedly instructed him on Wizarding Genealogy, teaching him how to analyze the Family Trees of Ancient and Noble families like the Blacks, going through every single detail so carefully that Albus could practically recite the ancestry of any given Wizarding Family in Europe in his sleep. He taught him how to analyze the political climate of any region, with particular emphasis on Britain, and how to effectively establish oneself in any new political situation.

The most intriguing part of Nicholas' collection was a record of every single Wizengamot session of the British Ministry. It was while going through these that Albus finally understood the mistake he'd made on his first day at the Wizengamot.

"Factions, Albus. Political factions in legislatures have existed since ancient times. The individual power of a representative notwithstanding, it is ultimately the faction that one belongs to that decides how much one can accomplish."

The alchemist paced from side to side. "Tell me, what are the factions in the British Wizengamot?"

"There are three important ones," Albus answered promptly. "The traditionalists, or the Dark faction; the progressives, or the Light faction; and those who come in between, the Neutral faction."

"Good. And do you know what your mistake was in dealing with them?"

"I isolated myself too early in the game," Albus sighed. "The speech I gave contained elements of progressive motions but in a neutral tone, and since I did not reach out to the factions willingly they did not come to my aid."

" _Bien_. Behold the insidious and opportunistic nature of politicians. These same people did not hesitate to rake advantage of your accomplishments on the battlefield, but they still hold you in contempt." He paced some more. "Now tell me: why did Arcturus Black react the way he did?"

"He construed my words as an insult to the traditionalist way of thinking." Albus frowned slightly. "I dare say that little performance in my office was an intimidation tactic."

Nicholas nodded approvingly. "A tactic he would not have resorted to had you mustered some support before making your speech."

Albus flushed at the gentle rebuke. "I admit I did not think things through. But I am a teacher, not a politician."

"No one is born a politician, Albus. Everyone has to learn," his mentor said. "That you have made a mistake is not important. What is important is that you learn from it."

"I understand. I shall make sure to reach out to the other factions as soon as I can."

"Do so, but be careful. Remember: promise nothing to anyone. In politics it is wise to always keep your options open and ."

Albus nodded in understanding.

Perenelle's teachings were much more subtle, however. Unlike Nicholas she taught Albus about other aspects of history, namely the lives and actions of various historical leaders.

"If there is one thing I have learned in all these years, _mon cher_ , is that there is no such thing as an _originale_ problem," she explained. "Whatever obstacle you may face, know that someone else in another time has already faced it before. History is full of such lessons, and there is much to learn from the wisdom of the past if you are willing."

So she taught him the life history of the greatest leaders, focusing more on their choices and personalities rather than their situations. From ancient leaders like Gilgamesh and Hammurabi, to more recent ones like Napolean and Lincoln and contemporaries like Churchill and Gandhi. . . Albus learned about them all.

"Not that I object to it," he once asked. "But why are you teaching me about the lives of muggle leaders?"

Perenelle merely smiled at him indulgently. "Magical or muggle, all leaders and visionaries have dealt with very similar problems in their careers, _mon cher_. History is full of patterns, and it is only by understanding these patterns can we prevent the horrible ones from repeating."

The years spent under the Flamels' tutelage were arguably the best years of Albus' life. For someone who had lost his family so early, it was truly a special feeling to have someone watch out for him instead of the other way around. Perenelle was always motherly in her affection towards him, and Nicholas with his gruff and direct manner reminded him of his father most times.

But their greatest gift, their most important nugget of wisdom, was a conversation Albus had with Nicholas on one cold December night.

"Tell me Albus," Nicholas asked as he settled into his favorite armchair by the fire. "Do you remember that disagreement we had all those years ago? When we were in the middle of uncovering the eight use of Dragon's Blood?"

Albus shook his head bemusedly. "How could I forget?"

It had been the first and perhaps only time he had ever lost his temper with Nicholas. What had begun as a simple discussion over the Philosopher's Stone's properties had turned into a full-blown argument between the two wizards, with Albus angrily accusing the Alchemist of hiding behind the wards of his manor instead of using the Elixir of Life to help others, as was his moral imperative. Albus had argued that Nicholas was being much too cowardly and selfish by keeping such a remarkable discovery for himself when he could be using it to cure injuries and magical maladies of hundreds of innocent people.

The ancient alchemist had responded by forcibly ejecting Albus, and all his belongings, from the manor.

It was Perenelle who had eventually tracked him down to a run-down hotel in France and dragged him back to the manor at wand-point. She'd then proceeded to lock both him and her husband into the study, threatening to keep them in there until they grew up and sorted out their differences like adults. And while they never did resolve that particular argument, mostly due to Nicholas' reticence, they did make a pact to never bring up that subject again.

But it seemed that the alchemist had changed his mind on the matter, if the piercing look he was giving his apprentice was any indication. "Back then," he started slowly. "I refused to explain myself to you, not because I didn't have to, but because you were much too inexperienced to understand."

"And you believe I have matured enough by now?" Albus queried.

"No," Nicholas sighed. "No, I do not. Despite everything you have gone through, you are much too naïve, _mon cher_. But it is something that you must understand and accept about this world if you wish to exercise your new-found powers effectively."

He stretched back in his armchair. "Back when Perenelle and I created the original Philosopher's Stone in 1398, we lived in a village outside of Paris. Perenelle had a friend, Monique, who was deathly ill and dearly wished to live only for a few years longer to see her first grandchild. Against my better judgement she convinced me to use the Elixir to save the poor woman's life, if only temporarily. So we gave her a small dosage of the Elixir which healed her diseased lungs and granted her five more years of healthy life."

"Naturally, out of gratitude Monique and her family did everything they could to repay us. Unfortunately, they did not stop there. Before long rumors began to spread throughout the village that Perenelle and I were some kind of divine beings, and people began to line up outside our home for help."

"It was tricky situation we found ourselves in: on one hand we could not reveal the existence of the Stone, but on the other we could not simply turn away the people who came to our doorstep and begged for the lives of their loved ones. What made everything more complicated was the fact that this village contained both muggles and magical folk."

"But Perenelle and I were nothing if not resourceful. We claimed to be physicians and used that ruse to 'treat' the people. Soon word of our remarkable healing abilities spread all the way to Paris, and it wasn't long that nobles and members of the Royal family began to call upon our services."

He sighed tiredly. "It was. . . exhausting, but at the same time highly rewarding. To be able to use one's gifts to benefit the world at large is every alchemist's dream, and we were doing just that. We could not have counted ourselves more lucky then."

"But all good things must come to an end, and so did this. Eventually the amount of attention we were attracting became too much to bear, and in 1418 we were forced to fake our deaths and come here, to the outskirts of Nice, where we first built the manor. Naturally, we also destroyed the original prototype of the Stone, since bringing it here was impossible."

Albus nodded in understanding. He was perhaps the only other person alive, apart from the Flamel couple, who knew about the true nature of the Stone.

Most people assumed that the Philosopher's Stone was a blood-red rock the size of a small fist, but that was merely a lie perpetuated by the Flamels to keep their enemies distracted. The real Philosopher's Stone was actually a massive runic array inscribed in mercury into the floor of the Flamels' home. It was tied directly to the magical ley-line beneath the manor, from where it drew the power required to produce the elixir and perform the occasional transmutation to gold.

It was the Flamels' greatest secret, and one Albus had sworn to protect until his dying day.

"We spent the next two centuries conducting more research, only exposing ourselves to the public in 1612 when we published the _Livre des figures hiéroglyphiques._ It was a time of great turmoil within the country, for Louis the XIII had just succeeded the throne as a child after the assassination of his father. Once again, ignoring everything we had experienced in the past we stepped forward to help our country and our people. Of course, we were more careful then. We hid in the shadows, used our near-limitless wealth to surreptitiously aid the public."

Nicholas sighed heavily. "We did. . .we did _terrible_ things, Albus. We manipulated the French nobility into revolting against the king, and then helped the king's supporters wipe out his opposition. We told ourselves that we were doing the right thing: that we were doing this it for the people, that we were fighting to free the working class from the oppression of the privileged. We went even further in helping Lois XIII establish himself as a just king, helping him declare war on Spain. We did everything we could to assure our nation's dominance in Europe, convinced that that was the only way for peace to prevail."

"And in doing so, we fell into a trap we had foreseen long ago."

"The Greater Good," Albus murmured softly. Suddenly, Nicholas' initial reticence to help in the war against Grindelwald made all the more sense to him.

His mentor gave a hollow laugh. " _Oui, oui_. . . I suppose you could say that, no? The Greater Good. We were so convinced that we were doing right by our people that we didn't even know when our hubris had gotten the better of us. In the end, our own intelligence became our undoing. Our desire to end war in Europe ended up causing even _more_ wars. Territories moved back and forth between nations, and thousands of lives were lost. By the time the War of Spanish Succession began we had grown so disillusioned with the world that we retreated completely from society; and we have stayed that way since then."

For a long time both men said nothing, only staring into the crackling flames of the hearth in silence. Then Albus spoke, "Why are you telling me this, Nicholas?"

"Because you are at a crossroads, _mon ami_. You are poised to become the most influential wizard of your generation, and it is up to you to wield that power as wisely as you can."

Nicholas turned to face him. "Do you know what our greatest mistake was, Albus?"

"Our sin was not that we were wrong in our _intentions_ , but that we were wrong in our _methods_. We were so obsessed with giving our people a better life that we took away their say in the matter. We were so focused upon fighting battles that it never occurred to us to let our people fight for _themselves_."

He sat up straighter in his armchair. "A true leader's responsibility is do well by his people, but not to an extent that the people forego their independence entirely. In order for a society to grow it must learn to choose between good and evil, but they cannot learn to choose if their leaders make all their choices for them."

"I still don't understand."

"Then let me put it simply," Nicholas steepled his fingers. "If tomorrow another Dark Lord like Gellert Grindelwald were to rise in your own country, what would you do?"

"I would fight him," Albus declared without a moment's hesitation.

"Why?"

"Why? Because evil must be fought! Men who wish to sow chaos for the sake of their own selfishness must be stopped!"

"And what of your own people?" Nicholas queried. "What if they do not wish to fight?"

"As a member of my country's government, it is my duty to fight. . ."

"I am not asking about your government, Albus; I am asking about your society, your _people_. If the public does not wish to fight, will you fight in their stead?"

"Of course! I will do whatever needs to be done. . ."

"Then you will fail, just like we did," Nicholas said sharply. "Albus, understand this: contrary to what others may believe you are not all-powerful, nor are you obligated to fight for those who will not, not _cannot_ , but _will not_ fight for themselves!"

"If you truly wish to do right by your people, you must teach them to _think_ for themselves! You must encourage them to decide between what is simply morally ambiguous and what is outright wrong!"

"War is hardly the way to do that, Nicholas."

The alchemist sat up straighter in his chair. "The question of the times will be decided not by speeches and resolutions, but by fire and blood," he intoned.

His student narrowed his eyes. "And what happens if innocent lives are lost in the process, Nicholas?" Albus said bitingly. "Would you have me sit back and watch my home burn?"

"If that is what it takes, then yes. You should."

Albus' jaw dropped. "How. . . how could you _say_ such a thing?"

"Because unlike you, I have the benefit of several centuries of experience," Nicholas snapped. "Do not forget that I have seen what your countrymen are really like, Albus! I have seen the bigotry and intolerance rise steadily in Magical Britain over the centuries, and I have seen history repeat itself enough times to know what is going to happen!"

"There is a rot festering at the core of your society, a tumor which has been growing steadily for decades; it will not be long before some power-hungry despot will attempt to take advantage of it, since that is what all despots do. Sooner or later your country will go to war, Albus, and there is nothing you can do about it."

"Surely you exaggerate, Nicholas. It's not so bad," Albus said, but his words sounded hollow to even his own ears.

His teacher apparently caught that as well, because he snorted in derision. "You know this as well as I do, _mon ami_. Averting your eyes from the truth will not make it go away."

"Sooner or later Magical Britain will undergo a trial by fire, as all nations have at a certain point in history. Will you help quench the flames and coddle the public like the other politicians, or will you stand back and allow your people to be forged by the fires of adversity so that they may grow stronger from it?"

Albus didn't say anything, merely staring into the dying embers in the fireplace.

* * *

It was not until a whole two decades later that Albus Dumbledore was forced to answer his teacher's question.

In the summer of 1970 a former student of his launched an insurrection against the British Ministry of Magic. Tom Riddle, now going by the moniker of Lord Voldemort, declared open war upon the government of magical Britain, using the cause of pureblood supremacy to rally people to his side. Traditionalists, blood supremacists, pureblood wizards with a sadistic streak. . . all of them flocked in droves to his side.

And their world burned.

Oh sure, Albus fought. He fought as hard as he could. But two decades of attempting and failing at changing their society had taken its toll on the once idealistic Hogwarts Headmaster. With his position in the ICW being only ceremonial, and his obligation to his alma mater coming before all, Albus had done the best he could as the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. He took all the lessons the Flamels taught him and used them to its fullest. He cultivated his image of the eccentric Leader of the Light, built a powerful faction, brought several forward thinking people together and pushed as many progressive motions through the Wizengamot as he could. . .

And it still wasn't enough.

Unbidden, the words of his mentor came back to haunt him every night. There was indeed a rot within their society, a gangrenous tumor that had taken its hold within the very foundations of their home; and it was now destroying them from the inside out.

This was Magical Britain's trial by fire.

Tom Riddle was an extremely intelligent and powerful wizard, and more. . . he was a leader. Like all men and women born to lead he had charisma which he used to attract the young and impressionable to his ranks, using lofty words to disguise his selfish intentions. He was also smart enough to learn from the mistakes of his predecessors. Rather than indulging in open warfare he adopted a guerrilla-style of attack, using small teams to hit multiple locations hard and fast. He sowed terror into the hearts of his masses through his use of theatricality and symbolism. He also took special care to avoid catching foreign nationals in the cross-fire lest the ICW find an excuse to aid Britain in what they perceived as a civil war.

Despite all this, Albus never actually thought of Tom as a threat; not really. Yes he was a powerful wizard, but he was also brash, hot-headed, easily-provoked and very superstitious. He was also an incredibly selfish and egotistical man, and Albus knew that men like him usually had a short lifespan. Sooner or later his own followers would be fed up with him, and then his end would be swift.

No, the real danger to their world was the _attitude_ of the people. Tom Riddle was only a passing symptom, the root of the disease was in the minds of the public. The purebloods of Magical Britain were so self-assured in their superiority, so obsessed with meaningless traditions, so out of touch with the outside world that they would destroy themselves in a matter of decades.

And that was something Albus could never allow.

In order to truly grow, in order for there to be genuine progress in their mind-set, the people had to _learn_. They had to see first-hand the consequences of following megalomaniacs like Tom Riddle, they had to see with their own eyes the result of remorselessly standing by old-fashioned bigotry. They had to be taught the hard way; and Albus could attest, from personal experience, that suffering was the harshest and best teacher of them of all.

It tore at his heart to do this. It rent at his very soul to sit back and take a passive-aggressive stance when so many innocents died by the day. But this was something that had to be done.

Albus was under no delusions that he could end the war if he chose to. Tom Riddle was powerful, but he was nowhere near powerful as Albus himself was when he fought in the Wizarding World War, and that was decades ago. He had only gotten stronger since then, and his experience combined with the Elder Wand made him (as much as he hated to admit it) unbeatable in a straight duel.

But he was also equally certain that beating Tom Riddle would solve nothing. If history was any indication, it would only make things worse.

Albus remembered all too well the way he had been lauded by the world after defeating Gellert. He remembered how the people had regarded him (and still did) with borderline hero-worship. He knew only too well that even now the general populace was speaking in awed whispers after the few times he had routed Riddle in a duel, calling him 'The Only One He Ever Feared'. All this only served to make him more uncomfortable and disillusioned with his people.

No one man was so important. No one man should be _allowed_ to be so important.

If by some miracle Albus did defeat Tom Riddle and end this war, he would become a messiah. The same people who called him one of the greatest wizards of the modern age would hail him as the second-coming of Merlin himself. The cult-like following he had would grow larger, the people would become so enthralled by his power that his word would become law; and he would wield more power than any man alive.

Albus Dumbledore did not want that power; not because he didn't trust himself with it, but because he genuinely believed that his people deserved someone better. Magical Britain, for all its shortcomings, deserved better than what he could give them; and Albus was determined to find such a person before the war was over.

The inspiration for that came to him unexpectedly. It was in a casual session of evening tea that his old friend Elphias Doge had suggested that they form a resistance group of sorts to fight Riddle's forces, since the Ministry aurors were too slow (and too understaffed) to respond to Death Eater activity. Albus had initially been hesitant: he disliked vigilantism and this felt too much like setting up 'The Cult of Albus Dumbledore' as so many of his detractors liked to say.

But Elphias made a strong case. He argued that out of all of them Albus was the only one experienced in fighting a war, and that he should let others get the benefit of it. More and more young magicals were taking up arms against Riddle's supporters every day, tired of watching friends and acquaintances die. But the Ministry was reluctant to use them, partly out of fear that these amateurs would get in the way of their own operations.

Albus could take them in, Elphias argued. He could teach them tactics and strategy, he could teach them to make the best possible use of their talents without getting themselves killed unnecessarily. It was this that finally convinced Albus Dumbledore to put out word to form the organization that would go on to be known as the Order of the Phoenix.

A pretentious name, in Albus' own opinion. But Elphias could be stubborn when he wanted to be.

This moniker attracted a motley collection of individuals, ranging from extremely talented fighters like Alice Longbottom and James Potter to intellectuals like Marlene McKinnon and Remus Lupin. Several of them were from prominent pureblood families, and while a part of Albus was always saddened by not having enough muggleborn members, he was glad that the younger generation of such old families were taking an active stand against Tom Riddle's backward policies.

It made him both proud and sad at having to chair the Order. On one hand he was honored to be surrounded by such brave individuals, and on the other the prospect of sending so many children out on the field filled him with horror beyond anything else. But this was _their_ war, not his. He was merely here to guide them, the future architects of their society, on the right path.

But a part of him was also, dare he say it, slightly disappointed with them. It irked Albus that so many of these youngsters were so firmly entrenched in the ideals of the Light that they refused to kill their enemies even in self-defence. The idea that his own Leader of the Light image might be forcing them to act this way irked him even more, but it was something he rarely called them out on. If these children would go to carve the future of their world, they had to learn to think for themselves. They had to realize that the man who they worshipped as an avatar of the Light had himself slaughtered hundreds in the war with Gellert Grindelwald, and thus was not someone who would hold a grudge against them if they chose to take a life; and indeed, as time went on the youngsters became bolder and more pragmatic in battle, having finally understood and accepted the harsh realities of war.

The credit for all of that lay solely on the shoulders of a single witch: Lily Evans.

Lily Evans (soon to be Potter) was an answer to Albus' prayers. Extremely intelligent, highly pragmatic and wise beyond her years. . . she was everything that Albus had looked for in his pupils. She also had a reserved attitude in general, one that he greatly appreciated in this troubled times. Lily was always slow to trust others (particularly authority figures), even if she was smart enough to never it let it show outright. But once she did form a bond with someone, there was little she wouldn't do for them.

Ironically, it was her distrust of him that made Albus like her even more. A healthy amount of skepticism was often necessary for survival, and the fact that there was someone out there who didn't take his word at face value was very refreshing to Albus.

There were also times when he could not help but see a little bit of his sister in her. Ariana had been an intelligent little girl before tragedy befell her. Would she have gone to become as accomplished as Lily was? Had things turned out differently, would she have gone to Hogwarts, grown up and fallen in love like Lily had? It felt selfish, trying to look for his dead sister in another young girl, but Albus felt that in the midst of a crisis like this one should find whatever little happiness they could.

Besides, if Albus had to be entirely honest with himself his interest in Lily Evans went further than mere parental affection. Lily was a born leader, even if she herself didn't realize it yet; even more, she was the kind of leader their world _needed_. Being a muggleborn gave her a unique perspective on their society that most purebloods would never have, and she was passionate enough about fighting for equal rights that many other muggleborn looked up to her. Already her reputation as the 'Bleeding Lily' was rallying more muggleborn to fight the Death Eaters than even Albus' had; and while he disagreed with some of her methods, he did not necessarily disapprove. As Albus knew only too well, in order to accomplish anything worthwhile leaders needed to be feared as much as they were respected.

She was also pragmatic enough to know how much to push and when to back down: an invaluable skill in politics. She was a magically powerful witch, and was good friends with members of several old pureblood families like Marlene McKinnon, Sirius Black and Edgar Bones. Her marriage into a well-known family like the Potters would only help her case.

The only thing that was against her was her age, but Albus felt that could easily remedied. Once the war was over he could persuade her to take up a Charms Mastery under Filius Flitwick. He could use that opportunity to teach her everything he knew about Wizarding politics, put her in touch with the right people. . . maybe persuade the Wizengamot to let her sit in a few sessions as an observer. Merlin be willing, with enough hard-work and the right tutelage and support, in a decade or so Lily might just end up becoming the first muggleborn member of the Wizengamot.

Yes, Albus Dumbledore had many high hopes for the young witch. His confidence in her was so great that Albus had actually named the girl as his heir in the event that Tom Riddle managed to get lucky and finished him off. There was no one else out there whom he trusted with using his resources for the benefit of their world.

If nothing else, he would at least get a good laugh imagining the expressions of shock on everyone's face when they realized that Albus Dumbledore had named a muggleborn witch as his heir.

* * *

 ** _February 1980_**

"What do you think?"

Perenelle Flamel sat down primly in her seat and sighed. "You were right to bring this to me, Albus. This is indeed a True Prophecy."

Albus rubbed his face wearily, the confirmation of his fears making him feel several decades older. "I surmised as much," he whispered. "But my own knowledge of Divination is gravely lacking, so I decided to seek your opinion."

He exhaled loudly. "Not even in my wildest dreams had I imagined that I would get to hear a True Prophecy in a job interview of all places!"

"I imagine you didn't," Nicholas chuckled ruefully. "But with your luck you shouldn't be surprised. The strangest things seem to happen around you, _mon cher_."

Fawkes the phoenix trilled in agreement from his position near the window.

Albus shot the bird a baleful glare before turning to his old friend and mentor. "I am aware that I have a tendency to get involved in the most extraordinary situations, but even you have to admit, Nicholas, that a True Prophecy is a tad extreme."

" _Oui_ ," Perenelle nodded. "In all the centuries Nicholas and I have lived, even we have only heard of a True Prophecy twice, but never met someone who actually heard one."

"And that too from such a surprising source," Nicholas added. "This. . . Sybil Trelawney is a descendant of _the_ Cassandra Trelawney, is she not Albus?"

"Yes she is, Nicholas. But believe me when I tell you that the woman possess not an iota of talent in Divination. She is, in the politest of terms, a fraud."

"Which is why you were so surprised when she delivered the Propehcy," Perenelle nodded in understanding.

"Surprised?" Albus snorted. "My dear Perenelle, I was stunned into disbelief! A part of me was convinced it was merely a last ditch attempt at theatre on her part to secure the job, which was why I took a few moments to scan her mind with Legilimency."

"Clever," Nicholas said approvingly. "Had it been a fake you would have doubtless seen it. A true Seer never remembers what they have spoken under the trance."

"My moment of cleverness is what cost us everything, Nicholas," Albus sighed.

The Alchemist shook his head. "We have been through this, _mon ami_. What happened after that was not your fault."

But Albus wasn't listening. "I was so shocked. . . so very taken by surprise. I simply sat there, rooted to my chair, unable to believe what I had just witnessed. If Aberforth had not made such a ruckus outside, I doubt I would have realized that we had been overheard."

A tense silence followed that statement. "This. . . Snape," Perenelle said slowly. "You are certain that he is a servant of the Dark Lord?"

"Quite. I barely had a second to see his face before he activated his emergency portkey, but it was enough for me to confirm his identity. I also attempted to trace the portkey immediately after his departure. It had the same Untraceable charm on it that Tom's supporters frequently use." There was a touch of bitterness in Albus' voice.

 _Yet another one of my failures. . ._

The revelation that Severus Snape had indeed joined the Dark Lord's ranks hit Albus harder than he'd imagined. The Hogwarts Headmaster had always had a soft spot for the boy, partly out of sympathy for his less-than-ideal home life and partly because Albus himself knew full well what it felt like to be ostracized by one's peers, having faced similar treatment in his early school years after his own father had been sent to Azkaban.

James Potter and his friends' constant bullying of young Severus had probably had a rather large role to play in his current choice. But Albus also knew that putting the entire blame on the shoulders of those teenagers was too simplistic. If one had to be perfectly honest, Severus hadn't done himself any favors with his reticent nature and obsession with Dark Magic.

Magical Britain had never had a particularly tolerant attitude towards Dark Magic unlike the rest of Europe, and the murders of hundreds of witches and wizards at Voldemort's hands in the last decade had made the situation even worse. People who showed an interest towards Dark Magic were looked upon with suspicion and outright hatred, particularly in the mid-1970s when the war had been at its peak. Albus recalled the several near-fatal duels that had occurred within the walls of his school during that time. It was hard to keep the students from lashing out at each other when every single day brought news of more death and destruction. It was doubly hard when one considered that the child of practically every single one of Voldemort's supporters shared classes with the children who had lost families and friends to his reign of terror, and were completely unapologetic about it.

No, if there was anyone Albus truly blamed for Severus' defection to the Dark side, it was himself. He knew he should have been harsher with punishments when Minerva and Horace reported the increasingly violent exchanges between their two houses. He also knew that he should have done the right thing and expelled Sirius Black from the school after the errant Gryffindor nearly led to Severus' death in their sixth-year.

But he had been helpless back then. Somehow, Orion Black had found out about Remus Lupin's condition, and threatened to go public if Albus dared to expel his son. The realization that innocent Remus would be executed if that happened (tolerance for werewolves was at his lowest during the War), coupled with the Black family's significant political capital meant that there was nothing Albus could do except give the boys a simple detention.

He still remembered the look of utter devastation and betrayal on young Severus' face when he explained his helplessness to the lad, and made him swear to keep Remus Lupin's secret. He had himself felt miserable back then, but beyond spouting empty platitudes there was little he could do. The War was already taking up most of his attention, and he could not afford to spend more time on that matter than he already had.

Besides, there had been a flimsy hope that maybe this incident would encourage Severus to reach out to Lily Evans, his old friend, and attempt to reconcile. Unfortunately, it had gone in the opposite direction. Severus had closed himself off even further, distanced himself even more from the rest of the school. . . choosing to keep the company of children from the Mulciber and Rosier families.

In such circumstances, was it any surprise for Albus to find him on the side of the enemy?

"Albus? Albus!"

He started out of his reverie to see his teachers fixing him with a concerned look. "Are you alright, _cheri_?"

"My apologies, Perenelle. There are far more important matters at hand." He rubbed his eyes and replaced his glasses on his nose. "Now, what can you tell me about this prophecy?"

"First tell me, what do you know about prophecies?" Perenelle countered.

Albus suppressed a small smile. This was the one thing that made her such a great teacher. Perenelle always made an effort to understand what level her students were at before answering any of their questions.

"Only the bare bones, I am afraid. I know that a prophecy is a foretelling of the future delivered by a Seer under certain conditions. They are vague, unreliable. . . and usually their meaning becomes clear only after the events in question have already passed." His brow furrowed. "I know the Department of Mysteries of the British Ministry has devoted a large amount of their research into uncovering their true nature, but their findings are highly classified and if my sources are to be believed, not very consistent."

"Hmm. . . well, you have a firm grasp of the essentials, despite your obvious distaste of the subject," Perenelle surmised. "However, there is much more to the subject than that."

A lazy flick of her wand summoned a few ancient looking tomes from nearby shelves. "You see Albus, there are prophecies, and then there are T _rue_ Prophecies."

"I am afraid I have no concrete understanding of the difference between the two," Albus admitted.

" _Pas ta faute_. Divination has long since been looked at with suspicion by the magical community due to its nature as an imprecise branch of magic," she explained. "The fact that many of its intricacies cannot be taught has only added to its notoriety."

"The rarity of the Gift is another thing that has contributed to Divination's unsavory reputation," Nicholas interjected helpfully. "We can count the number of genuine Seers we have known in all our years on the fingers of one hand."

Albus nodded in understanding. "So what is a prophecy supposed to be exactly?"

"Ancient magic," she answered. "Probably the most powerful kind of ancient magic in existence. For you see, while regular magic allows us to manipulate the laws of matter, energy and even time itself, prophecy is magic that involves the manipulation of the most intangible of things in this world: chance."

"Chance?"

"Chance, probability, possibility. . . call it whatever you will. But from what little is known, the magic behind a prophecy is the only thing that is capable of altering reality itself."

The Hogwarts Headmaster's eyebrows shot upwards. "But where does such powerful magic come from?"

"Where does any magic come from?" Nicholas shrugged. "Researchers have struggled to answer that question for centuries, but none have succeeded."

"The only thing that we do know is that this magic has been around long before civilization came to be. History is full of such references, and even the mythology of muggles is full of allusions to magic that has changed the destiny of thousands. You can see the outlines of prophecy in many of popular folk-tales of various cultures. A great evil rises, and a hero's arrival is announced." Perenelle absent-mindedly turned a few pages of the old tome. "The first recorded prophecy dates back to well before Myriddin walked the earth."

"Before Merlin himself? How extraordinary!" Albus exclaimed. "But then, what is the difference between a regular prophecy and a True Prophecy?"

"Regular prophecies are much more common than you might believe," Nicholas answered. "Several of them are made in a century, and most of them never come true. True prophecies on the other hand deal with events of great significance, and thus are rarer. Much, much rarer."

"And True Prophecies that target individuals are rarer still," Perenelle nodded. "The last such True Prophecy heralded the birth of Genghis Khan, the Warlord Wizard of Mongolia who founded the largest contiguous empire in the known world. The effects of his accomplishments can be seen to this day."

"I am acquainted with the story of Genghis Khan thanks to your lessons, my dear Perenelle." Albus took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Are you saying that the Child of this Prophecy will leave behind a similar bloody legacy?"

" _Non_ , Albus. Not again," Perenelle wagged her finger under his nose sternly. "How many times must I remind you not to paint ancient history with the brush of modern morality?"

"But you just said. . ."

"Think, Albus. Just calm down and think for a minute. Yes, Genghis Khan was responsible for a lot of death and destruction during his lifetime, but he also accomplished a great deal. He united the warring clans of Central Asia. He was the only ruler to bring the Silk Road under a cohesive rule. Without his accomplishments, trade between Asia and Europe would never have been established, and the world as we know it now would have been very different."

"What Perenelle is trying to say," Nicholas interjected, "is that subjects of True Prophecies are, by their very nature, revolutionaries. They are the kind of people who almost single-handedly change the fate of entire civilizations. They are literally born to be great."

"Precisely," his wife nodded excitedly. "Every single person whose birth has been foretold by a True Prophecy has gone on to have an immeasurable impact on the society around them. There is a good chance this child will as well!"

"Incredible," Albus murmured. "But why is Voldemort mentioned in the prophecy?"

"That _mon cher_ , is a very good question. It is something that puzzles me as well." She frowned at the Pensieve where Albus' memory was still floating around. "In all my studies I have never heard of a True prophecy that was so. . . conditional."

" _Oui, oui_. Let us analyze this line by line now." Nicholas quickly jotted down a few lines on a piece of parchment. "' _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches'_ – it is fairly straightforward."

"' _Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. . .'_ ," Albus continued. "It would seem that the child is destined to be born at the end of July, assuming it does refer to the Gregorian calendar."

"I am fairly certain it does. But what does the word 'defy' mean?" Nicholas wondered. "There are many ways to defy a person."

But Perenelle shook her head dismissively. "You both are being much too concrete. Prophecy is a more abstract subject than that."

"Well, how would you interpret it then?" her husband challenged.

She steepled her fingers. "We know that the Dark Lord's name stands for 'Flight from Death' in _français, non_?"

The two men nodded.

"Well, if we were to consider that the Dark Lord is an avatar of death, then would not defying him be equivalent to defying death at his hands?"

"That. . actually makes a lot of sense," Albus said slowly.

Nicholas scoffed. " _Ridicule_! You have no basis for deducing that. It is merely conjecture!"

His wife fixed him with a stern look. "Do you have an alternative explanation, _mon mari_?"

"Well. . _non_. . that is to say. . ."

"Moving on," Albus said loudly, eager to break up their impeding quarrel. "' _. . . and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not_ ' – what does that mean?"

"That is much too vague for me to answer," Perenelle stated. "We have no way of knowing if the marking will be physical or otherwise, and it is useless to speculate about ' _the power he knows not_ ' until the child in question is born."

"Agreed," her husband nodded.

Albus was strangely silent however.

"Something you wish to say, mon cher?"

"Well," he shifted slightly in his seat. "I have a theory on the power he knows not. ."

"Then by all means, share it with us," Nicholas said.

"Ummm. . ."

"Spit it out, Albus," he sighed.

"Ithinkitmightbelove. . ."

The Flamel couple looked at each other in confusion. "We did not catch that, _cheri_."

"I think," the Hogwarts Headmaster cleared his throat. "I believe the power Tom knows not is love."

The Flamels responded by bursting into laughter.

"Love! Love!? Did you hear what he just said?" Nicholas howled.

"Oh Albus," Perenelle giggled. "You have such a wonderful _sens de l'humour_!"

"But. . . but I was not joking, Perenelle. . ."

"Of course you weren't," Nicholas wheezed. "By the Ancestors, I haven't laughed this hard in a while. . ."

Albus merely glared at his two teachers in consternation. He was never so very glad that his beard covered so much of his face, since his ears were already red with embarrassment. He was also trying very hard to not look at Fawkes, who had fallen off his perch and was guffawing even louder than Nicholas.

Eventually Perenelle decided to take pity on him. " _Bien, bien_. . . that is enough, Nicholas." She fixed her student with a patronizing smile. "Since we are operating completely within the realms of guesswork, anything is possible. Let us just keep this aside for now, shall we?"

Albus nodded dumbly, still glaring at Nicholas.

"Moving on," she said loudly. "This is the part that interests me the most: _'. . . and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.'_ "

"It seems fairly straightforward to me," Albus stated. "They are destined to kill each other in the end."

"And what happens if they don't kill each other?" Perenelle countered. "What happens if they _refuse_ to kill each other?"

A cold dread settled into the pit of his stomach. "Are you saying that they will both become. . . immortal?"

" _Merde_ , _non!_ Even a True prophecy cannot grant immortality to someone," she said. "The most it will do is make them both unkillable."

Albus was puzzled. "Isn't that the same thing?"

" _Non_ , it is not. In Soul magic, immortality refers to a state of eternal natural existence, whereas unkillability refers to immunity from death by physical harm."

"Take the Philosopher's Stone for instance," Nicholas elaborated. "The elixir it produces prevents the aging of our internal organs and revitalizes our cell structure. It is how we have lived for several centuries."

"But for all the power of the elixir, it cannot prevent us from being killed. A Killing Curse to the face will kill us as surely as it will kill you. It is why Pernelle and I have lived all these years under such heavy wards."

"Then what about Fawkes?" Albus queried. "He is immortal _and_ unkillable."

"A phoenix's concept of immortality is very different from a human's," Nicholas corrected him. "Fawkes _can_ die, but every time he does he will be reborn from his ashes. But once a human dies and the soul passes on there is no way to bring them back, even using the most advanced necromancy."

Albus nodded slowly, finally comprehending the point. "So you are saying that the prophecy makes both its subjects unkillable?"

"I am fairly certain of it," Perenelle confirmed. "The Prophecy's wording has effectively locked these two into mortal combat. The only way they can be killed is at each other's hands, and there is no way to escape it. Notice the phrasing ' _and either **must** die at the hands of the other_ '. It shows that in no uncertain way can the Dark Lord or the Prophecy Child hope to escape death at each other's hands! It doesn't matter if they actively choose not to fight each other, it doesn't matter of they spend their entire lives staying away from each other. . . fate _will_ find a way of bringing them together on opposite sides. It is inevitable!"

"Interesting. But you say can they can still die?"

"Oh yes, they can! A stroke of unfortunate luck can kill them as certainly as it does us. If say, this Child of Prophecy were to fall off one of the towers of your school," Albus winced at the image, "he or she will certainly die. But if someone were to push them off the tower, or if they jumped off of it of their own accord, they will survive the fall. They might break their neck or end up in a coma, but they will survive."

"That is horrible, Perenelle!"

"Indeed it is, _mon ami_. Indeed it is. But fate has decreed that their end will come only at each other's hands, and there is nothing anyone can do about it."

Nicholas sighed heavily. "What makes the whole situation worse is that the Dark Lord is probably thinking the same thing as well. I do not envy the parents who are to bring that infant into this world."

"Agreed," Albus sighed. "It will be an uphill task to keep them all safe."

"Whoever they are, you cannot protect them forever, Albus," Perenelle warned. "Remember, that child is destined to fight the Dark Lord sooner or later."

The Hogwarts Headmaster's mood darkened immediately. "I will not use a child to fight a war, Perenelle," he said flatly

"This isn't _your_ war, Albus," she fixed him with a stern glare. "There is much more at stake here than you understand!"

"I understand perfectly well, thank you. . ."

"No, you don't," Nicholas interrupted. "Think carefully Albus: a prophecy has just entered the equation. A True Prophecy! What does that tell you?"

"What is it supposed to. . ."

His mentor leaned forward. "Let me put it this way: the Dark Lord has been responsible for several deaths in the last decade, correct?"

"Thousands," he agreed.

"And yet, he is hardly the greatest mass murderer in recent history. Why, Gellert Grindelwald himself was responsible for setting off a war that killed millions of people. But his defeat at your hands was not foretold by a prophecy!"

"What are you trying to say, Nicholas?"

"What he is trying to say, _mon ami_ , is that there is a _reason_ the Prophecy has targeted the Dark Lord," Perenelle explained. "For a True Prophecy to have targeted him so specifically he must have done something very horrible."

"Are you implying that Tom might have broken one of the elemental laws of magic during his experiments with the Dark Arts?" Albus asked in surprise.

Nicholas scoffed. "It is impossible to _break_ the elemental laws of magic, Albus, but it is possible to circumvent them. Like we did with the Philosopher's stone."

"So Tom Riddle managed to push the boundaries of magic so hard that magic decided to push back," Albus mused. "Though I suppose I should not be surprised. He was one of the most brilliant students to have ever graduated from Hogwarts."

He sighed. "Yet another sin to lay at my feet. . ."

"Don't you start again," Nicholas warned. "Albus, we have been through this before. You cannot go around blaming yourself for how Tom Riddle turned out!"

"If I handled things better. . ."

". . . nothing would have changed. I have seen your memories of your first meeting with that. . . boy, Albus; and while I admit you could have handled that situation differently, there is little you could have done to set him away from the path he eventually followed."

"You are right, of course," Albus agreed. "But sometimes I wish I had seen the signs earlier. Perhaps if I had acted with less haste when he came to me for the defense job back then. . ."

"You would have only succeeded in endangering your students," Perenelle finished sternly.

"There was even that incident with the poor girl, Myrtle. I should have suspected he was hiding something. Confronted him. . ."

"And what would that have achieved, exactly?" Nicholas raised an eyebrow.

"I could have. . ."

"Killed him? Hit him with a Blasting Curse to the head the moment you suspected he was evil? And even if you had done that, where would you have stopped? Where would you have drawn the line?"

"If you started attacking people on the basis of what they might do Albus, you would become every bit the self-righteous dictator your opponents accuse you of being," Perenelle said. "You would have ended up going down a very dark road, and let me tell you right now Nicholas and I would not have followed."

"I understand, Perenelle. Perhaps you are correct that this truly isn't my war to fight." He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "But that still does not change the fact that I will not allow any child to be brought up as a weapon, even if it is a weapon against evil. That is a line I will simply not cross."

"You might not have a choice, _mon cher_ ," Perenelle said softly. "Once a True Prophecy is set into motion, nothing and no one can stand in its way."

Albus fixed her with a determined stare. "Then I shall prevent it from being set into motion in the first place."

"For all you know, it already has."

Once again Albus Dumbledore was at a loss for words, his teacher's words ringing ominously in his years.

* * *

 **AN: Now before you all start spamming me with flaming comments, just take a moment to hear me out.**

 **I understand that my reasoning isn't going to fly with everyone, but just take a moment to think about this: we've seen how bad the bigotry in Magical Britain was after a war that caused so many deaths. Imagine how bad it would have been if there hadn't been a civil war to begin with, if people like Bellatrix and Dolohov were allowed to roam freely in society.  
**

 **Remember in OOTP we have Sirius saying that a lot of the old families agreed with Voldemort when he initially started out, but they got cold feet when they realized how far he was actually willing to go. It's not too much of a stretch to imagine that Dumbledore felt the same way, and decided to adopt a more passive approach to the whole situation.**

 **Regarding the True Prophecy thing, that's basically my way of trying to give some meaning to the blasted thing. I've always found it a bit weird on how irrelevant the prophecy seems to appear in canon. I mean, there's an entire a room full of orbs in the DOM, which casts doubt on how many of them are the real deal.**

 **Hence a rare form of prophecy that is actually magic's way of righting the imbalance Voldy has caused with his horcruxes. It also explains why Harry is so powerful in this story. Not only was he born powerful (since he was literally born to kick a dark lord's ass), Vernon's attack only served to increase his power. Since the only one who can kill Voldy is Harry, the reverse must also be true. Hence Vernon's attempt failed, and the horcrux which had been in his scar was absorbed into him, giving a further boost to his power. The end result is that, in a twisted manner, the prophecy went ahead and made Harry the Dark Lord's equal, not just in terms of his appearance and background (orphans raised by muggles) but in power as well.**

 **This chapter is special to because it highlights the real theme behind this fic: of bringing change to a corrupted society. My real aim has never been to simply show a BAMF Harry who kicks everyone's ass, but to show Harry as what he should have been: a leader and hero who rights the wrongs of Magical Britain.**

 **I also decided to expand the Flamels' role a little. Even someone as great as Dumbles needs a mentor, and I figured it was a reasonable explanation for how a school teacher becomes such a great strategist. It also explains why Dumbles lays so much store by the prophecy despite not having any interest in Divination (by his own admission).**

 **Next up: My attempt at explaining the many plot-holes of the night Halloween 1981. Dumbledore's dealings with the Dursleys and relationship with Harry is explained.**

 **Stay tuned :)**


	25. What We Fight For - I

**AN: Before we jump right in, I would like to take a moment to express my sadness for the recent tragedy in Paris. My deepest condolences to any readers who might have had friends or family hurt in the attack. I hope everyone was able to stay safe and secure in their homes, and will continue to do so.  
**

 **Take care, folks.**

* * *

 _ **31 October 1981.**_

Albus cursed under his breath as he made his way to the Potters' home.

 _Of all the days for Fawkes to have his Burning. . ._

His detection charms keyed into the wards around the Potters' home had triggered close to an hour ago. The Death Eaters had been unusually active this Halloween after a rather prolonged period of silence, executing guerrilla strikes across several regions at the same time; and while the aurors were able to repel most of them (thanks in part to his spy's timely warning), there had still been a great need of damage control at the Ministry.

In hindsight, it was pretty obvious that the entire night's events had merely been a smokescreen for Voldemort to carry out his plans without hindrance. But not even in his wildest dreams had Albus ever imagined that the Dark Lord would be able to break through the Fidelius of all things!

And to make matters even worse, the Potters had not had their Invisibility cloak with them tonight! Albus had merely borrowed it from them a scant four days ago, and was planning to return it by the end of the week. He had never imagined that they would be compromised before then!

 _Oh Merlin! Please let them be alright!_

He knew his prayers were going to go unanswered the second the Potters' cottage came into view. The entrance was torn apart so badly that Albus could clearly see their living room through all the wreckage.

His heart hammering wildly in his chest, Albus drew his wand and walked into the house. He stifled a sob at the sight of James Potters' crumpled form slumped against the wall. He bent down and closed the blank eyes of one of his dearest pupils when the shrill cry of a child reached his ears.

 _Harry!_

The child was still alive! Then did that mean. . . had Lily survived as well? His pulse quickening, Albus cautiously made his way up to the nursery. He rounded the corner of the staircase and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight that greeted him.

The room looked like it had been hit by a storm. An entire portion of the roof was gone, scorch marks covering the walls everywhere, the windows had been blown away clean. . .

And in the center of the room lay the body of Lily Potter, sprawled across the floor beside a pile of black robes. Sitting right beside the corpse, looking older and more worn that Albus had ever seen, was the devastated form of Severus Snape, his spy within the Death Eater ranks.

The man's greasy hair was splayed all over his head, his eyes gaunt and staring straight ahead, tear tracks marking his pale sallow face; the haunted look on the young wizard's face made him look several decades older.

But Albus felt no sympathy towards him. In that moment, loath as he was to admit it, Albus Dumbledore could not help but feel that Severus Snape deserved every bit of pain and suffering he got.

It was _his_ fault all this happened! His jealousy, his _pettiness_ was the reason two good people were dead before their time! It took all of Albus' restraint to not curse Snape right then and there for what he. . .

A shrill cry cut through the old warlock's thoughts, reminding him that there were more important things at the moment than revenge.

 _Harry!  
_

Albus swiftly moved towards the crib where the toddler was bawling at the top of his lungs, blanching at the sight of the bloody cut on his forehead. He then proceeded to hit the child with every single healing charm in his arsenal (of which they were quite a lot). Ten minutes later when baby Harry was finally asleep, Albus wearily wiped his forehead, idly wondering why the scar on the child's forehead hadn't disappeared when he. . .

He frowned when he noticed a large blood splatter on the floor. How in Merlin's name did that get there?

Albus bent down to inspect it more closely. No, not a splatter. . . it was much too uniform in shape. It looked vaguely like a runic circle: a runic circle drawn in blood.

The implications sent a chill down Albus' spine.

 _Oh Lily! What did you do!?_

Blood magic. A runic circle powered by blood magic, designed to create the ultimate bond of protection magic could hope to bestow. A life for a life. Equivalent exchange, the founding principle of alchemy, taken to its ultimate conclusion.

 _But then does that mean Voldemort. . . ?_

Albus searched the room more carefully. His eyes fell on a bone-white wand lying on the floor beside a smoking pile of robes. He recognized the distinctive wand immediately, having fought against it so many times in the last ten years.

His mind worked furiously as he tried to reconstruct the events of the night. Voldemort had attacked the Potters after getting hold of the Secret somehow, and James had fought him to buy time for Lily to escape with Harry. But instead of running away, Lily had used her blood to quickly draw a runic circle and offered herself up to Voldemort (it was safe to assume that she hadn't put up a fight because of the lack of wand in her hand). By freely offering her own life in exchange for her child's, she invoked an ancient magic which worked to cast a powerful protection around the infant. Voldemort must have then hit baby Harry with an Avada Kedavra (his trademark curse; he rarely used anything else) on the forehead which rebounded on him because of Lily's sacrificial magic.

But if that was the case, then why was his body not here? Albus frowned when he realized the anti-apparition and portkey wards were still active around the cottage, which meant that Voldemort was still alive somewhere. But what measures could he have taken that his own curse would not. . . ?

He shook his head roughly. No, now was not the time to worry about this. There were much more pressing issues at hand.

He stood up straight and strode over to the distraught Death Eater. "Severus Snape? Severus? Severus!"

Unable to break the man out of his stupor, Albus raised his hand and viciously slapped the wizard across the face. Snape staggered against the wall in shock, staring at the warlock as though only noticing his presence now.

"Severus, you must listen to me carefully," Albus said urgently. "You are in grave danger! Voldemort has been defeated for now, and once word gets out that he met his downfall due to information he got from you every single one of his supporters will be after your life. Do you have a safe place to hide?"

Snape nodded dumbly.

"Good." With a wave of his wand Albus collapsed the wards around the Potter home and then reached out and picked up a stray piece of wood, turning it into a portkey. "This will drop you at a remote location in London. Make your way to your hideout and stay there until I contact you personally. Do not attempt to contact any one of your Death Eater companions! Do you understand?"

At Snape's acquiescing nod, Albus roughly shoved the portkey into the younger man's hands and watched him disappear. Letting out a deep sigh, he sat down heavily on the floor and turned towards Lily's body.

Tears flowed freely from his eyes as he gently put her hands together and closed her blank eyes. Not even in his worst nightmares had he believed that this day would come. He had been so certain that, no matter what happened, the pragmatic young witch would find a way to survive the end of this war.

 _Why, Lily? Why did you have to go so far!?_

By tomorrow, every single witch and wizard in the world would know that Voldemort had met his end. Regardless of how temporary his defeat was, the fact remained that he had been vanquished at a high cost. . .

 _Cost. . ._

Albus nearly jumped to his feet in fear. He had completely forgotten that Lily had used Blood Magic to defeat the Dark Lord! No matter her intentions, the fact remained that Blood Magic was classified as Dark by most of the European Ministries, including the British. If this became public knowledge. . .

Albus cursed as he paced from side to side. If word got out that Lily Potter had used Dark Magic to defeat Voldemort, there would be chaos. Of course, the people would be happy that Voldemort was gone, but that would not last long. Once the celebrations had died down, the narrow-mindedness of the British public would rise to the surface once again. They would whisper that the wife of James Potter, a muggle born witch, had practiced the Dark Arts! That her status as a Dark Witch was the reason she had been able to defeat the Dark Lord in the first place! Lily's own reputation for ruthlessness would be used against her, and all her good deeds, all the lives she'd saved through her actions. . . all of it would count for nothing!

Decades of playing politics had taught Albus many valuable lessons. He was not naïve enough to believe that Voldemort's defeat would mean the end of his supporters as well. After all, many of his followers came from old and wealthy families. They would undoubtedly pull every trick in the book to get out of prison, even with Barty Crouch's way of handling things. Cutting deals and making bribes was a standard way of life in the Ministry.

Besides, there was also the possibility that the Dark Families might try to stir up a controversy regarding Lily's use of Blood Magic to distract the public from their own crimes. Misdirection was a classic tactic in politics, after all.

The good name of the Potters' would be dragged through the mud. With the entire family practically extinct now, Albus would have no other choice but to watch as their hard-earned reputation would be torn apart by their detractors. By painting Lily as a Dark witch, the Death Eaters would make a mockery of her sacrifice, and themselves get off scot-free despite all the crimes they committed.

No, Albus could not. . . _would not_ allow that to happen! Lily and James sacrificed everything so that their boy could live. Albus would not stand by and watch their callous and cruel society turn innocent young Harry into a pariah.

But how? How could he find a way to explain all the events of this night without letting Lily's use of Blood Magic come to light?

His eyes alighted upon the sleeping form of the young toddler and an idea slowly formed in his head.

Tomorrow their world would demand answers, wanting to know who was responsible for Voldemort's defeat. As was always the case in such circumstances, they would demand a hero to thank and worship, to put on a pedestal and regard as their savior.

Harry could be their hero. All Dumbledore would have to do was erase every single trace of Blood Magic inside the cottage, and the people would automatically assume that the child was the cause of Voldemort's downfall. A few whispers in the right ears, and Harry Potter's image as a legend would be so firmly entrenched within the public's mind that no one would even bother to investigate what really happened this night!

The question now was not whether he could he do it, but whether he _should_ do it.

Albus was under no delusions of what he was attempting to do. He was essentially painting a target on the infant's forehead, branding him a hero to be lauded and praised by the entire Wizarding world. The boy would grow up to be a symbol to their society, someone to be placed on a pedestal. . . someone who would never have a normal life no matter how hard he tried.

Albus shook his head slightly. Honestly, who was he trying to fool? Any chance Harry had had for being normal died today with his parents. He had never been a normal child, and if the Prophecy was true (and after tonight, Albus greatly doubted if it wasn't) he never would be.

Besides, it wasn't as though the target on his back could grow any bigger. Voldemort himself had marked the child as a threat, and since Albus was almost one hundred percent sure that the Dark Lord was still alive, Harry's future confrontation with the evil wizard was inevitable.

If Albus walked away now and let events play out as they should, only Merlin could tell what would really happen next.

But if he interfered, then Harry Potter would become a legend. He would be famous; even more famous than Albus was when he ended the War with Gellert Grindelwald. Given the proper guidance, by the time the lad graduated from Hogwarts he would wield more political power than Albus himself.

And if there was one thing the last four decades had taught him, it was that fame was a tool. An inconvenient tool for certain, but still a very potent tool; one that could be used to do a lot of good in the world if the wielder chose to. Harry's fame and subsequent status in their world would be a weapon he could use to fight Voldemort if. . . no, _when_ he returned.

And return he would; Albus did not doubt that for even a moment. Tom Riddle was one of the most tenacious people he had ever known. If there was anyone out there who could successfully stave off death, it was him.

Decision made, Albus used his wand to erase the runic circle of blood, and any other signs of blood magic in the room. He then spent the next half-hour carefully searching the whole house for Lily's notes on the ritual she used. He carefully pocketed all the evidence, but not before running a cursory glance over them to determine their exact nature.

Albus' own knowledge of Blood Magic was pretty good (he had dabbled quite a bit into the Forbidden Arts in his youth). He quickly determined the nature behind Lily's protection and his brilliant mind helped him recall something he had once read about Blood Wards. Should he be able to channel the residual magic from Lily's ritual effectively, he should (theoretically) be able to extend the protection, giving Harry a permanent natural defense against Voldemort.

But that required the assistance of a close blood relative, and Albus was quite sure that Lily's parents were dead. He faintly remembered something about a muggle sister. Perhaps Minerva would know?

He strode back into the nursery and checked on the still sleeping toddler. As he bent down to pick up the child, he frowned when he realized that it would seem suspicious if _he_ were the one to retrieve Harry from the ruins of the cottage. Barty Crouch and he had had several disagreements lately regarding their less-than-legal ways of dealing with Death Eaters, and the head of the DMLE would insist on looking at this situation more closely if it was discovered that Albus had spent so much time within the Potter's home before the DMLE forensic team arrived.

Minerva was out of the question since Albus needed her to locate Lily's sister, and Alastor was at the Ministry with the aurors. Perhaps he could ask one of the Order. . .

He dismissed that thought immediately. No, what he needed for this task for someone he trusted absolutely. Someone whose reputation for honesty was impeccable. Someone who no one would ever dream of suspecting of foul play.

And the answer came to him: Hagrid. Sweet, kind, gentle Hagrid was the last person anyone could accuse of being involved in a conspiracy. And he was imposing enough that even the most hardened Death Eater would think twice before attacking him. Harry would be safe in his care.

Nodding to himself, Albus shot off a Patronus message to Hagrid, instructing him to retrieve young Harry from the cottage and take care of him until Albus contacted him again with the address of Harry's aunt's. He also firmly included the part where no one, meaning absolutely _no one_ was to so much as touch the child without his express permission.

Knowing that he had only a few minutes before Hagrid made his way here, Albus removed all trace of his magical signature from the house and cast one last mournful look at Lily's body. "Farewell, my child. I hope to see you again on the next great adventure. . ." he whispered.

He then activated his own emergency portkey and disappeared. He had preparations to make.

* * *

It was an entire day later that an extremely tired and worn out Albus Dumbledore made his way back to his office.

Exhausted, but triumphant. The whole plan had gone off without a hitch.

After sending off Minerva to locate Lily's sister, Albus had looked up some references on Blood Magic from some of the books in his private room at the Hog's Head (courtesy of his brother Aberforth) and made sure to attend close half a dozen celebrations to give himself an alibi for Barty Crouch's inevitable interrogation. Then he placed baby Harry at Petunia Dursley's doorstep with Minerva and Hagrid as witnesses, and spent the next five hours with them at the Three Broomsticks raising a toast to James and Lily's memory.

He then used a Time-Turner (one he was due to return to the Ministry now that the war was over) and went back five hours, arriving just as his older self and the other two left. He then proceeded to Disillusion himself before spending the entire night casting the Blood Wards around the Dursley home, weaving the magic from Harry's bond of love with his mother into the very layers of the wards.

It was incredibly tiring work, even for a wizard of his caliber. But the sight of the slumbering toddler gave him strength, and in a few hours the wards were completely set up.

Then he waited. He waited with bated breath for another hour. Finally at the crack of dawn, Petunia's shrill scream awakened the child. She and her husband exchanged heated words at the doorstep before they carried baby Harry into the house. . .

. . . and the wards fully activated.

Albus heaved a huge sigh as he felt the power of the wards wash over him. Intent-based magic: the most powerful and complex magic in existence. No one who intended harm to Harry could ever hope to approach this house, even if it was Voldemort himself.

 _I did it, Lily. Your sacrifice was not in vain. Your son will always be protected. . ._

now finally back in his office, the Hogwarts Headmaster sighed as sipped a glass of his strongest firewhiskey. While the feeling of success was great, the despair that he felt at the loss of his two brightest pupils was simply overwhelming.

The War was over. Victory had been achieved, but at a very high cost.

James had always been one of his favorite students. Intelligent, kind-hearted, mischievous, a bit arrogant. . . but steadfast in his loyalty to his friends. Whatever he may have been as a teenager, the man he grew up to be was someone Albus had always greatly admired. And Lily. . . Lily had been the closest thing to a daughter he'd ever had, even if he'd never quite succeeded in saying it out loud.

But now they were gone, dead at such a young age! Their one-year old baby orphaned, forced to remain hidden just to lead a safe life; and if Minerva's initial impression of the Dursleys was accurate, certainly not a very happy one.

He took another sip of his drink. He really, truly wished that there had been another way; that young Harry would have an opportunity to grow up in his world, surrounded by people who loved him instead of merely tolerating him. But there were too many factors, too many things that could go wrong.

Lily's contingency plans hadn't exactly helped him, either.

He glanced thoughtfully at the items lying on his desk. A piece of parchment that contained the Last Will and Testament of Lily Potter nee Evans, and a sealed journal delivered to his office hours after her demise.

Of all the things he had encountered in the last twenty-four hours, this was perhaps the strangest of all. Sure, on the surface things seemed pretty straightforward: Lily named him the executor of her will, and left behind the journal with a request to give it to Harry when he was ready.

But the more he looked at it closely, the more it confused him. Why had Lily named _him_ as the executor of her will, especially given her open distrust of authority figures? What was in that journal and what did she mean by giving it to Harry when he was ready? A part of him couldn't help but feel that the answers were in that journal, but out of respect for her memory he did not read it. In his mind there was no greater sacrilege than violating the privacy of a family.

Besides, there were more pressing matters at hand.

He once again read through the will. What had Lily been thinking, making such arrangements for Harry's care? Surely she must have understood the ramifications of her actions? Then why would she request that Harry be sent to. . .

He shook his head. No, no he was being too foolish. Lily's greatest strength was her ability to plan in the long-term. He would not be surprised if she had made other arrangements of her own to help her son in the event of her death. No doubt this tied into it, somehow.

But that still begged the question: why had she gone to such lengths in the first place? Researching Blood Magic, performing that ritual, arranging for this journal to be delivered to him. . . it was almost as if she had known what was going to happen.

But that was impossible. Or was it?

Albus sighed. He was much too exhausted to be going through all this right now. Whatever Lily's intentions were, they would reveal themselves given enough time. He just had to show some patience.

Still, he mused, it would be nice to know why she hadn't thought about naming some of her comrades from the Order as Harry's guardians. Why, she hadn't even mentioned the boy's godfather, Sirius Black. . .

 _Wait a minute. . ._

Albus suddenly sat up straighter in his chair. What was that Hagrid had said to him back at Privet Drive? Sirius Black had met him outside Godric's Hollow, demanded that he hand over Harry. . and then given him his flying motorbike.

But why?

Albus knew Sirius well enough to know that the boy was among the most stubborn people he'd ever known. If he really had wanted to take Harry with him, he would have done it. At the very least, he would have insisted on accompanying Hagrid to see what Albus had planned for his godson.

But he hadn't done that, had he? No, he let Hagrid, an outsider, leave with his godson without even bothering to confirm his story. Even more, he handed over his prized possession, his flying motorbike, without a word of complaint. What was that Hagrid had mentioned that he'd said? _'I won't be needing it anymore'_.

Why would he say that!? Why would he act that way!?

 _Unless. . ._

A cold dread settled into the pit of his stomach. No, it couldn't be. . . he wouldn't do that. . . not Sirius. . .

Closing his eyes, Albus began to use an old occlumency trick Nicholas had taught him and began to examine his memories of the past year. It was a slow, painstaking process, but after several minutes he found what he was looking for: a faint memory of himself, James and Sirius sitting in his office, discussing the Fidelius Charm. . .

His face blanched as he finally saw the confirmation of his worst fear: James and Lily had indeed made Sirius their Secret Keeper.

The more Albus thought about it, the more it made sense. They had suspected for quite some time, particularly after the deaths of the Prewitt brothers, that there had been a spy within the Order. But out of respect for their privacy, Albus had never performed more than a cursory Legilimency scan on any of them. It hadn't helped that most of the Order had some level of occlumency training, and were more than capable of keeping a secret if they wanted to.

Could Sirius Black have been the spy? Had he been passing information back to Voldemort's people from the very beginning?

Albus shook himself mentally. What was he talking about? Of course, he was the spy! Who else could it be? Who else would have the motive and the opportunity to do something like that?

The 'why' was pretty obvious: it was to regain his status as heir to the Black family. Sirius had been disowned by his mother back when he was still at Hogwarts. It made sense that he had come to regret that foolish act of rebellion, and tried to get back into his family's good graces. Being the cunning people they were, the family must have demanded that he pass them information from behind enemy lines, and he had.

And Albus, like the fool he was had allowed it! He had sat back and let that traitor sit with them at their table, to eat and drink in their midst when all the time he had been plotting their downfall!

His hands clenched into fists, his magical aura unleashing around the room threateningly. For the life of him he could never understand why he had thought that someone like Sirius Black could turn out alright. After all the trouble he caused when he was at school, after the time he nearly got Severus (and by extension, Remus) killed; after all the grief the Black family as a whole had given him over the decades, he had still trusted him, like a fool!

That boy was a monster, a thorn in the side of all good and honest people; just like his father and his grandfather!

But he wasn't going to get away with this! Oh no, Albus would make sure that backstabbing demon rotted in Azkaban for the rest of his miserable life!

Tired, angry and exhausted, Albus Dumbledore made an incredibly rash decision. He jumped to his feet and strode over to the fireplace, intending to share his deductions with Barty Crouch.

It was a mistake he would come to regret.

* * *

 _ **August 1991.**_

"I do believe that is the last one," Albus said as the storage crate packed itself.

" _Oui._ It is," Nicholas sighed and stretched his back. " _Merde,_ I am getting too old for this!"

Albus raised a bushy eyebrow. "Getting too old for faking your own death?"

"Very funny, Albus. You try faking your own death sometimes. See how difficult it is!"

"I shall pass on that, thank you," he answered with a small smile. "But do remind me: why exactly are you and Perenelle faking your demise once again?"

"In all honesty, it is because we are tired, _mon cher_ ," Perenelle answered as she entered the room. "Six centuries is much too long a time to live in this world."

" _Précisément_. That, and it's becoming harder to pretend that we give a hippogriff's behind about the world anymore," her husband muttered.

Perenelle shot him a dirty look. "Ignore the old goat's wheezing, _mon cher_ ," she said to Albus. "He is just sad that he had to be the one to clean out the library."

"Well, it wasn't my book collection that took up half the manor," Nicholas grumbled.

"Perhaps you should read more then," his wife shot back.

"And perhaps _you_ should go to. . ."

"Alright, let us perform one last inventory check," Albus interrupted loudly. "Are you certain we packed everything?"

"Completely." Nicholas sat down in his chair. "All that is left is to. . . what is the phrase. . . ah, yes. . . get the show on the road."

"Let me see if I have it correctly," Albus began. "In exactly six months, you will announce that you have destroyed the Philosopher's Stone and remaining Elixir samples, allowing you to live only long enough to set your affairs in order."

"Then in two months, our solicitors will announce our official demise," Perenelle continued. "Naming you as the one incharge of disposing all our assets, including the manor."

"And I am to complete this by the end of the next year, and forward the monies to you at your new home in. . . er. . ."

"Los Angeles, California in the United States of America," Nicholas prompted. "Hollywood, Albus. Hollywood! Ancestors, how can you forget that?"

"My apologies, Monsieur Guillory," Albus said, using the new surname the Flamels were going to use in their new home. "I am not very familiar with the cinema from across the pond."

"I still do not understand why you had to choose Los Angeles of all places," Perenelle said with a shake of her head. "We will stick out like a sore thumb."

"That, _ma femme_ , is the genius of the plan! It will be so overt that it will be covert," Nicholas declared grandly. "Just imagine: Monsieur and Madame Guillory, an old and wealthy couple emigrating from the countryside of France." He put on a really bad American accent. "Hey there! How're you doin'? Nice to meet ya!"

The other two simply stared at him blankly.

"Never mind," he sighed in disgust.

Albus' beard twitched slightly before he turned back to Perenelle. "Still, I do have to admit your sudden call took me by surprise. I assume you have been planning this for a while now."

"We have," she confirmed. "We were going to do this in a couple of years. But recent events have forced us to accelerate our schedule."

Albus sat up straighter. "What recent events?"

The Flamels exchanged a look. "A few days ago, there was disturbance at the edge of our wards. Someone was trying to force their way in."

"And you are telling me this now!?"

"Albus, please. People have been trying to get past our wards and steal the Stone for centuries," Nicholas said. "We have gotten so used to it that it is barely of any concern anymore."

"But you could have called me. . . !"

"All the way from Britain?" he snorted. "Don't be ridiculous! Besides, we have been defending the Stone from thieves before your grandfather was born. Another pair of hands is more of a hindrance than a help!"

"And yet, something about this attack has you worried," Albus surmised.

"We performed our own investigations into this matter, and what we found was . . disturbing." Nicholas licked his lips. "Apparently, there is a highly skilled Dark Wizard in town. My sources claim that he arrived here a week ago. From Albania." He shot his student a meaningful look.

Albus narrowed his eyes. "Albania, you say?"

" _Oui_ ," Nicholas nodded. "What's more, he is leaving quite a trail of bodies in his wake. Almost all of them have traces of the Cruciatus and Killing Curse on them."

"Tom," Albus breathed softly.

"Maybe. Or it might be someone attempting to copy his _modus operandi_. Either way, it is dangerous to continue staying here in France."

Albus heaved a heavy sigh. "Agreed. But leaving here means forfeiting the Philosopher's Stone. I assume you are taking a stock of Elixir with you."

"We have enough to last a decade. Two, if we ration," Perenelle said.

"Then you will die?"

"Yes. We will die," Nicholas answered simply. "To sickness or old age, whatever gets to us first. To the world, we will seem like a regular non-magical couple who died after living to a ripe old age. We will be buried alongside non-magicals in a regular cemetery. No fuss. No threat of any misguided witch or wizard attempting to steal our remains for some bizzare ritual."

"Exactly as we like it," Perenelle smiled, squeezing her husband's hand gently.

Albus regarded his teachers with an awed look. "How could you be so calm in the face of death?" he asked.

"To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure," Perenelle intoned.

"You always did say that," he chuckled. "I can only pray that I am able to show half the fortitude when I meet my end."

"Now, now none of that, Albus. You still have a lot left to live for," Perenelle said sternly. "Besides, who will continue our legacy if you don't?"

"Thank you for saying that, Perenelle," Albus smiled. "I shall endeavor to live up to your expectations."

"You'd better," Nicholas grumbled. "It took me a century to invent the pensieve, and the one we're leaving with you is the most advanced kind there is. I swear, if you do not take good care of it, I will come back from the grave to haunt you."

"Oh my, I had better be careful then," Albus grinned. "I would hate to have the ghost of a senile old alchemist haunting my school."

"And just who do you think you're calling senile, you. . !"

"Nicholas," his wife warned.

"Nevertheless," Albus said as he stroked the outer edge of the beautifully carved pensieve. "I do not believe you have to worry about your belongings." He smiled wistfully. "With luck, they will someday be in hands worthier than my own."

Nicholas frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, Nicholas you really are going old," Perenelle sighed. At her husband's outraged expression, she explained. "Harry Potter will be coming to Hogwarts this term."

"Ah," Nicholas nodded in understanding. "So is finally coming home then. Your wonder child."

"Yes. Yes, he is."

"Well, then I hope he proves to be worthy of all the gifts you plan to bequeath him. It would be a shame if our possessions end up in the hands of some reckless, spoiled child."

"Oh, I do not think you need to worry about that, Nicholas," Albus smirked. "Harry is the farthest thing from a spoiled child."

"Oh. Do tell."

"My. . ah. . reliable source tells me. . ."

"Reliable source?" Nicholas scoffed. "Right. You mean that batty old cat lady you hired to spy on the boy."

"As I was saying," Albus said loudly, shooting his mentor an irritated look. "My source claims that Harry is a very hardworking and responsible child. He helps around with the chores, and is said to be quite diligent in his studies. I also have it on good authority that he spends almost all his free time in the local library." There was a touch of pride in his voice towards the end.

"Yes, yes. . . that is all very well," Nicholas said patronizingly. "But you haven't actually seen the boy yourself, have you?"

The smile vanished immediately from his face. "No. No, I have not," he said mournfully. "I have not seen him since that day, all those years ago. . ."

 _Albus beamed as the two year old child's bright green eyes lit up with joy at the sight of stuffed lion he had conjured. But his happiness did not linger for long as the harsh clearing of a throat shook him out of his reverie._

 _"Petunia. . ." he began._

 _"Mrs Dursley," the horse-faced woman corrected._

 _Albus suppressed a flinch at the open hostility in the young woman's gaze. "My apologies, Mrs Dursley. I take it we have an agreement then?"_

 _"Agreement?" she practically shrieked. "Agreement? You act as if you're offering us a choice in the matter!?"_

 _"There is always a choice, Mrs Dursley," he said quietly. "But in this case, allowing Harry to stay in your home in the safest course of action for your entire family."_

 _"Safest? That almost sounded like a threat." Vernon snorted. The huge beefy man crossed his arms and glared at him. "I just don't believe your kind! First, Petunia's good for nothing sister goes and gets herself blown up; and then you go and dump her spawn on her doorstep like a bottle of milk. Don't you people have any decency?"_

 _Albus wasn't sure whether it was the insult towards Lily or the disdain towards baby Harry that set him off. At any rate, this simple statement was enough to make him unleash his aura. "Firstly," he intoned. "This 'spawn' happens to be your nephew. Secondly, Lily Potter was a hero who died trying to save this world from the greatest evil it has ever seen. I will thank you not to insult her in my presence!"_

 _The Dursley couple immediately shrank back. "Y-you can't t-threaten us like this," Petunia stammered defensively, he face gone stark white in terror._

 _The Hogwarts Headmaster felt some of his irritation slide at their horrified expressions. This was going much worse than he'd imagined: he was here for a negotiation, not intimidation. "My apologies," he said. "Back to the business at hand: will you continue to let Harry live under your roof until he is ready to re-enter our world?"_

 _"W-What do we get out of this?" Vernon blurted out._

 _"Apart from the most powerful kind of protection magic can provide?" He sighed at the way they flinched at his use of the word 'magic'. "Very well. What is it do you want?"_

 _"Well. . . raising children is expensive," Vernon muttered._

 _Albus raised a bushy eyebrow. Between the brand new vehicle outside and the pristine condition of the house, he would've guess that the Dursleys had more than enough money to raise another child, especially when he was family. But apparently they did not share the same sentiment. "How much?" he asked._

 _"Er. . . five hundred-no, four hundred pounds. . ."_

 _"One thousand," Petunia said, causing both men to look at her in shock._

 _"One thousand pounds. Every month. Or he doesn't get to stay," she declared, before crossing her arms and glaring up at the ancient wizard._

 _Albus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Very well. I shall deposit one thousand pounds in your family account every month until the day Harry comes of age."_

 _"Or you could just give us access to her account," she said snidely. "I know she had some gold squirreled away in that strange bank that your kind use."_

 _"I think not," Albus said coldly. He had no desire to let these. . . people's hands get anywhere close to the Potters' money. That belonged to Harry, and Harry alone. "I will pay you the money from my own account. As long as you get your payment at the beginning of every month, it should not be any concern of yours as to where the money comes from."_

 _Petunia's horse-like face seemed to contort in anger. "Alright," she ground her teeth. "But I have another condition!"_

 _Albus repressed another sigh. "Go ahead."_

 _The woman stepped forward and looked right into his face. "I want you to swear that you or any of your kind will never darken our doorstep again!"_

 _"What?"_

 _"You heard me," she spat. "I don't want your kind in my house! I want your freakishness to stay as far away from my family as possible. I don't want to become the talk of the neighbourhood just because your kind has no sense of privacy or common decency. I won't have it. I won't have it, I tell you!"_

 _"Mrs Dursley, please be reasonable. . ."_

 _"I **am** being reasonable," she screamed, her spittle flying all over his robes. "I couldn't care less if that little urchin **died** , do you hear me!? I'm doing you a favor by letting him stay here, and in return I'm asking you to leave us alone! Do you understand? You or anyone of your freakish kind must never show up here for any purpose! Is that clear?"_

 _For the first time in a long time, Albus was at a complete loss for words. How could she say such things about the child of her own sister? And how could he possibly explain to this woman why her request was so difficult for him to grant? How could he possibly make her understand the bond he felt with Lily's only child; how the little boy playing near his feet was the closest thing to family he had left?_

 _He decided to make one last attempt. "Mrs Dursley. . ."_

 _"If you don't like it, you can leave," she snarled, glaring at him defiantly. "Leave, and take that. . . that_ thing _with you! Never come near us again!"_

 _For a moment, Albus was tempted to do exactly that. He wanted nothing more the pick up the infant and walk away, blood wards be damned! There was nothing he wanted more than to ensure that Lily's boy would never have to come near this vile woman ever again!_

 _But then baby Harry reached out and tugged at the hem of his robes, and Albus found himself looking down at the child he had to come to care for so much. He saw the scar, the only visible mark of that Halloween night, a stark reminder of the evil that still lurked out there in the shadows. He thought of Lily, the woman who willingly offered up her life so that her son could live instead._

 _Was it right for him to throw away the protection that she had died for? Would he really be able to protect Harry from Voldemort better than Lily could? Was the child's happiness really worth more than his safety, bought and paid for in his mother's blood?_

 _No. No, he could not. As much as he wanted to, he could protect him. He couldn't protect his mother, he couldn't protect Ariana, he couldn't even protect Lily. . ._

 _Fighting back the tears from his eyes, Albus turned back to Petunia. "Very well. I, Albus Dumbledore, give you my word that I nor any other witch or wizard under my command will ever physically come near your family, or have any kind of contact, until Harry is ready to come to Hogwarts." A brief glow of magic sealed the deal. "Is that satisfactory?"_

 _For a long time, Petunia glared at him, as though trying to ascertain his truthfulness. Then she nodded. "That's good. Now show yourself out!"_

 _"And don't forget about the money," Vernon warned, his false bravado having finally returned._

 _Albus nodded and briefly knelt down to plant a kiss on the infant's brow. "Be well, my child," he said softly. "I hope you will find it in yourself to forgive this old man someday."_

 _With one last look at the Dursley couple, Albus walked out of Number Four, Privet Drive. He ran a cursory glance over the currently vacant house at Number Eight down the street._

 _After all, he had promised that no magicals would ever come near their family. He had never said anything about squibs._

 _Perhaps his old friend Arabella would enjoy a new home._

"Albus. Albus? Albus!"

He blinked away his daydream to see his teachers looking at him in concern. "My apologies."

"It is I who should apologize," Nicholas said quietly. " _Je suis désolé_ , old friend. I misspoke."

"It is quite alright, Nicholas. Now," he cleared his throat. "I do believe we should come up with a suitable distraction before you make your great escape."

"Distraction?"

"Elementary strategy, my dear Perenelle," Albus stated. "If this Dark wizard is as dangerous as he seems, we need to make sure he is suitably distracted before we go ahead with the plan. Otherwise, it will all come to naught."

"Agreed," Nicholas nodded. "But how?"

Albus glanced around the room, his mind working furiously, until his eyes fell upon the blood red stone on the alchemist's desk: the fake Philosopher's Stone that Nicholas used as a paperweight. "What if," he said slowly, picking up the rock. "What if we were to use this?"

"Ah," Perenelle nodded in understanding. "You wish to use that to draw attention away from us."

"Precisely. Nicholas, I need you to go to Gringotts tomorrow and get this transferred into a high security vault in Britain under my name."

"And then get that information leaked to the correct sources?" Nicholas asked shrewdly.

"Indeed." Albus steepled his fingers together. "I plan on using that Stone to draw out our mysterious Dark wizard. See if he has a connection of some sort with Tom, or if he is merely an ambitious copycat."

"There is one flaw with your plan, Albus: if he is half as persistent as he appears to be, he will not be deterred by the prospect of breaking into Gringotts," Nicholas warned. "If he gets his hands on the fake Stone, our charade may be over before it has even begun."

"Then I shall have the fake Stone moved to Hogwarts," Albus declared. "It will help us buy some more time."

Perenelle shook her head. "That is a very dangerous idea, _mon cher!_ "

"It's only for a few months, Perenelle," Albus reassured her. "Besides, the wards of Hogwarts are practically impregnable once they are fully raised after the beginning of the term. Once the fake is transported to the castle, even the most determined thief will have to reconsider his options; not to mention it will make our ruse seem all the more authentic."

"And what if this Dark wizard were to infiltrate your school somehow?" she pressed.

"Then he will still have to face me. And at the risk of sounding arrogant, even Tom would not be foolish enough to challenge me in my own home."

Nicholas sat back heavily in his chair. " _Ma femme_ is right. This is a very bad idea."

Albus sighed. "I know, old friend. Believe me, I know. But I have little choice in the matter. For a decade I have looked for proof of Lord Voldemort's continued existence, and found nothing concrete. If this risky gambit is what is takes to bring him out, then so be it."

He gazed out of the window at the setting sun. "Harry will be coming to Hogwarts this year. If I am to ensure his safety, if I am to ensure everyone's continued safety. . . I need to determine once and for all who or what are enemy really is."

"And to do that you will risk the safety of every single student at that school?" Nicholas sighed. "The irony. . ."

"I know," Albus murmured. "I know. But I have no choice."

* * *

Albus' insane strategy worked better than expected, with Hagrid bringing the fake Stone to the castle just as the new term began.

But the Hogwarts Headmaster's attention was occupied by another matter entirely.

Harry Potter. Oh how Albus' heart had swelled with joy at the sight of the young lad! Practically a carbon copy of his father, with Lily's intelligent bright green eyes, walking though the Great Hall, tall and proud, to put on the Sorting Hat. The ancient wizard had been ready to jump in joy when the child was sorted into Gryffindor, the house of his parents. Instead, he contented himself by a raising his glass in a small toast to the beginning of Harry's journey in their world.

The more he observed him, the happier he grew. Harry was everything Albus (and indeed, most of their world) had dreamed of: smart, kind, humble, always ready to lend a helping hand to those in need. . . a credit to Lily and James in every possible way. Minerva gushed almost non-stop in private over his abilities in Transfiguration, Filius took every possible excuse to bring up the child's great skill in Charms, and even Severus, despite his sour disposition, was forced to concede that the young Potter's talent for magic was formidable.

But throughout it all the signs were there: the signs that everything was not as well with the child as everyone was so eager to believe. Whether the others noticed it or not, Albus definitely did. All the times Harry tried to keep to himself, the moments when he avoided physical contact unless he was the one to initiate it, the stifled manner in which he spoke about his relatives whenever they were brought up. . .

All this filled him with a great deal of sadness. It seemed that, despite what Albus had dared to hope, Harry's childhood in the Dursley home had been far from ideal. Arabella had of course mentioned that things had become much easier for him after Vernon's unfortunate death a few years ago (which Albus honestly could not say he was very sorry for), there was the fact that the lad had had to endure more than his fair share of suffering.

So Albus did everything he could to make it up to him at school. He instructed Severus to mind his temper around Harry (as much as he could, anyway), he approved Minerva's request to have him drafted onto the Quidditch team (in her defense, Harry really was gifted at flying), he even secretly passed on James' Invisibility Cloak to him as a Christmas present. . .

It was the last action that indirectly led him to accost the young lad in the room with the Mirror of Erised.

"The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?"

Harry stood up.

"Sir - Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you something?"

"Obviously, you've just done so," Dumbledore smiled. "You may ask me one more thing, however."

"What do _you_ see when you look in the mirror?"

"I? I see. . ."

For a moment Albus wanted to give the standard eccentric reply he gave whenever someone asked him such a personal question. But looking into those startlingly green eyes, he felt a wave of sadness and shame wash over him.

This was the child upon whose shoulders destiny had placed such a huge burden, a burden which Albus himself had added to by creating the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived. This was the very same child whose childhood had spent in misery and unhappiness because of another one of his decisions, justified though it may have been.

Was it right for him to lie? Was it right of him to refuse an honest answer to one who had known so much suffering? What kind of a man did it make him that he, who always preached about love and trust, lied to the child who was so dear to him?

Albus took a deep breath. "I. . had a sister once," he said softly. "She died when she was very young, barely older than you really. Her name was Ariana."

The young boy's eyes widened in surprise. "Sir! I'm so sorry. . ."

"It's not your fault, Harry," he said gently. "It's just one of things about life, I suppose." He glanced at the Mirror again, watching sadly as a brown-eyed little girl smiled and waved happily at him. "Things which are best left forgotten. . ."

"Or maybe," Harry said slowly. "It's exactly what we need: something to remind us."

"Remind us of what?" Albus asked.

The eleven-year old looked him straight in the eye. "Of what we're fighting for."

The profound wisdom behind those words filled Albus with an indescribable emotion: melancholy, satisfaction, regret, happiness. . . all mixed into one. In that moment Albus found himself reflecting on his life, on everything that had transpired since his time with his family in Mould-on-the-wold; how, for better or worse, the events of his past had shaped his nature and brought him this far. "Yes, that is true, isn't it?" he murmured, casting one last wistful look back at the enchanted mirror. "So very true. . ."

"I should get back," Harry said. "Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight, Harry."

And as Albus Dumbledore made the long walk back to his office, for some reason his heart felt lighter than it had in years.

* * *

 **AN: So yeah, updating this took me a lot longer than I thought it would. I rewrote this whole chapter thrice until I felt reasonably satisfied with the way it turned out. I have, of course, done my best to tackle as many of the plot-points as I could. Do mention it in your reviews if you feel I've missed something or if something doesn't seem to add up.**

 **In this chapter I've tried to show Dumbledore's intelligence and pragmatism at work, while at the same time showing his vulnerability. The latter is something I feel has never actually been dealt with properly in canon. For all that Dumbles keeps going on about how he is only human, we rarely seem to see that part of him until the final book. It's why I tried to do something different: Dumbledore is still the ultimate strategist with great presence of mind, but he's still human enough to let his grief get the better of him and jump to the wrong conclusions (like in Sirius' case).**

 **Another thing I've tried my best to showcase here is Dumbledore's idealism, which to me is the most defining trait of his character. Even in canon we see that Dumbles is always the guy who wants to see the best in people, even those who seemingly don't deserve it. You could argue that it was irresponsible as fuck of him to believe that the Dursleys would have treated Harry at least with common human decency, but child abuse is something that blindsides most people. Even after seeing so many cases myself, I still can't help but get a WTF feeling every time I come across physically or emotionally abusive guardians. It's one of those things you simply never get used to.**

 **And if the beginning of the chapter (absence of Fawkes + Invisibility Cloak) seems a bit unbelievable, well. . . I invite you to look up the term Fortunes of War. Throughout history strange things have happened that can often be put down to grand conspiracy theories, but most of the time it's just plain bad luck. Shit happens in war, things go horribly wrong. . . it's just how it is sometimes.**

 **FYI, Dumbles doesn't know that Harry is (or was) a horcrux at this point; so that whole 'He was plotting Harry's death all along' stuff is moot.**

 **The mystery of Lily's strange will and her final journal will be revealed in future chapters. Depending on whether I have time, I might do a Lily POV as well.**

 **Next up: The chapter you've all been waiting for - the story of renegade Harry told from his own POV. Also revealed is the story of Lily's notes, and the extent to which they shaped Harry into what he's become.**

 **Stay tuned.  
**


	26. Recollections - I

**AN: Hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving, or at least some delicious turkey dinners.**

 **BTW, I decided to try a slightly different writing style for this chapter. Lemme know what you all think!**

* * *

Some people are born great, some grow great and some have greatness thrust upon them.

Harry Potter was a little bit of all three.

He was born of prophecy, an instrument of Fate and the will of magic itself given physical form. The only one in several centuries whose arrival in this world was heralded by the words of a Seer.

As a child, the mantle of greatness was thrust upon him. The same tragedy that took his family away also made him a hero; a symbol of resilience against the evil that prevailed in the world of magic.

But true greatness is not that which is gifted by birth, nor one that which is bestowed upon by others. No, true greatness belongs only to those who _grow_ great. Only those who are forged in the fires of adversity and tempered in the flames of suffering can make themselves into a weapon that shapes the destiny of an entire civilization. Only men and women of action, who perform glorious deeds and overcome insurmountable odds, can become the heroes who leave their mark upon history.

So what is it that makes Harry Potter great? What circumstances could possibly turn an innocent child into a renegade who will do anything to enforce his vision upon the world?

This is his story. . .

* * *

 ** _20 November, 1988._**

Harry Potter is no stranger to pain.

In fact, one of the few things he remembers about his childhood is pain. Faint memories of a dark night, a woman with red hair, high-pitched screaming, a green light. . .

. . . and then pain. A lot of it.

Another thing Harry Potter is familiar with is death. He has been at death's door twice in his young life. Once all those years ago, when he lost his parents. . .

. . . . and second during that time when Vernon lost his temper.

He still doesn't know how he possibly survived that beating. His jaw shattered, his head cracked open, blood flowing freely from his nose and ears. . . .

He should have died that day, no question about it. In fact, he's pretty sure he _did_ die that day.

He recalls the way his vision slowly dimmed, the manner in which his senses shut down until only his hearing remained; the difficulty in breathing growing more pronounced by the second, until finally his heart gave out

And yet, something happened. Something strange happened that night, as he lay in his cupboard; like the hand of Fate itself interfering with reality, something extraordinary happened and changed the fate of an entire world.

In a way, Harry James Potter did die that day.

And like a phoenix from the ashes, he was reborn.

* * *

The days that follow are spent in utter agony.

He feels like his skull is being split open, strange images forcing themselves into his mind, strange sounds and weird sensations overwhelming his senses; something indescribable tearing at him from within.

It is much later that he realizes that they are memories. Memories of people he's never met, memories of places he has never been to; memories which, horrifyingly enough, aren't even his.

He is Tom. . . . He is Harry. . . . He is Tom. . . He is Harry. . . He is Tom. . . . He is Harry. . . Tom. . . Harry. . . Tom. . . Harry. . . Tom. . . Harry. . . . Tom. . . Harry. . . Tom. . . Harry. . . Tom. . . Harry. . .

Days filled with torment. Days filled with alien thoughts inside his head. Days spent not even knowing his own name. . .

A stroke of luck leads him to find a dilapidated building a few blocks away. He barricades himself into a room and sits in a corner, rocking forwards and backwards, trying his best to sort out his head.

Sometimes he lies awake, clutching his head, screaming for hours; sometimes he just falls asleep and is haunted by vivid nightmares. Images of pain, suffering and horror burrowing into his brain like sharp razor blades. Sometimes he curls into a ball and weeps continuously. . .

Either way, it helps. It doesn't take away the pain entirely, but it does help him stay lucid during the rest of the day.

Not completely though. He knows that he isn't quite there most of the time. His thoughts are frequently occupied, he is easily distracted, most of the times he doesn't even react to his surroundings.

His teachers on the other hand, are flummoxed. They berate him continuously, threaten to cane him, they assign him detention; they whisper behind his back that he's an attention-seeker, a troublemaker, a hooligan in the making.

He ignores them. He has bigger concerns right now; and besides, when has any adult done anything useful for him!?

He knows he's being unfair, that it's not entirely true. There _have_ been adults who tried to help him in the past. He recalls the one time two Child Services officers came in to check on the Dursleys. A young woman, possibly in her twenties, was outraged when she saw his cupboard. But her superior, a fat man like Vernon, brushed her off. He sent her to the living room while he went to have a 'chat' with the Dursleys.

He recalls peeking through the gap in the door, and watching the man heartily speaking to Vernon, something about some club, and then a fat envelope goes into his pockets. The fat man and his partner leave after that, the woman shooting him a sad look. They are never seen again.

He remembers that particular incident well. Vernon starved him for a week after that.

He also remembers another adult: a young teacher, Ms Dayton. Ms Dayton had been the first teacher to notice what really happened at the school; the first teacher to stand up for him, and actually speak out against Dudley and his gang.

She's gone by the next month.

It is then that he learns the cold, hard truth about this world: He is alone, and will always be alone. He is exactly what the Dursleys have always called him. . .

Unwanted.

* * *

 ** _30 July, 1989._**

He's sitting alone in his usual corner, arms around his legs.

It's his birthday tomorrow.

He knows he shouldn't be here this late in the night, but his relatives don't care so why should he? Besides, it's peaceful here, and he'd much rather ring in his birthday from here than that smelly old cupboard.

He glances at Dudley's broken but working wristwatch that he stole from the garbage bin. Five minutes left.

He draws a small cake in the dust of the rotten floor. He's actually in a pretty good mood today; he hasn't had one of those headaches in two days now. At twelve am, he blows out the dust. "Happy Birthday to me," he says softly.

"Indeed, Mr Potter."

He nearly jumps out of his skin and scrambles backwards in shock.

A man is standing right in front of him. An extremely short man, with pointy ears and a hooked nose. He has never seen this man before.

No, not man. _Goblin._

He has no idea how he knows that's a goblin. He just does.

"My name is Snapjaw, Mr Potter," the creature speaks in cultured tones. "I have a delivery from you from Gringotts."

"G-Gringotts? T-The bank?"

Again he has no idea how he knows Gringotts is a bank. He just instinctively knows.

Something flashes through his mind. Images of a snowy white building, hundreds of tiny men sitting on high stools, an underground cart. . .

He blinks his eyes rapidly, trying hard to stay focused.

"Indeed," the being said, looking at him curiously. "I have a delivery for you."

"From whom?" he asks automatically.

"Your mother."

He stares at the goblin, certain he has misheard. "My mother's dead."

"I am quite aware of that, Mr Potter. I was the one who helped her draft her will, after all."

"A will? My mother left me something?" He's shocked to hear that. Petunia had always told him his parents were worthless drunks.

"Quite a few things actually," Snapjaw frowns. "You may find out about your inheritance when you visit the bank. Right now, I'm here for this." The goblin gestures at the large trunk beside him.

He steps forward for a closer look. "What is it?"

"I am not sure. Your mother merely left instructions to have this delivered to you on your ninth birthday."

He examines the trunk carefully. It is a plain black with a golden trim, and looks completely unremarkable. He also notices it has no keyhole.

"How am I supposed to open it?"

Snapjaw points at a groove near the lid. "Place your thumb against this edge, and press downwards."

He obeys and lets out a small gasp as a cut his formed. "What the hell was that!?" he demands.

"The trunk is keyed into your blood now. It will open only for you and you alone. It is also charmed to always be feather-light, and if you tap the lid and say the word ' _Arto_ ', it will shrink to the size of a matchbox." The goblin bows slightly. "I should be going now. Good day, Mr Potter."

"Wait," he cries, but the creature is gone. He has so many questions he wants to ask: what are these charms? Why did his mother leave him all this? What did he mean by inheritance? Why did his mother have this delivered now?

His head still spinning, he reaches forward and with trembling hands touches the lid. It open with a slight click.

He slowly open the lid, not knowing what to expect. His eyes widen in surprise.

Books? The trunk is full of books!?

Wait. . not books. They're diaries, journals with dates labelled on them. He notices a single letter lying on top of all the diaries, the words 'Read me first' written in neat script on the envelope.

With trembling hands, he slits open the rather heavy envelope (what is it written on? Not paper) and unfurls the letter.

In the dim light of the full moon, he can make out the top-most letters:

 _My dearest Harry. . ._

He runs one hand over the elegantly written words, not even daring to blink lest everything simply disappears.

Tears run freely over his cheeks as he makes himself comfortable on the floor, ready to have a long overdue conversation with his mother.

* * *

By the next week, his brain is practically overloaded with information.

Magic. . . Hogwarts. . . wands. . . witches and wizards. . . blood supremacists. . . wars. . .

If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought this was all some elaborate prank by the Dursleys.

But he _does_ know better. He's got the memories to _prove_ it.

He doesn't know why, but somehow he can see images flash in his mind every time he reads his mother's journals. Memories of a large beautiful castle, memories of a dark haired boy (who looks a bit like him) walking the hallways, memories of sitting around a fire inside a dungeon of sorts, memories of waving a long stick and muttering strange words. . .

He doesn't know why, but somehow he has instinctive understanding of everything his mother says. He _knows_ what magic is, what a wand can do, what kind of a place Hogwarts is. He even understands some of the bigger words his mother uses, something he's pretty sure a child of his age shouldn't be doing so easily.

His headaches are even worse after these study sessions, but he's too stubborn to give up. He sneaks in a couple of tomes into the Dursley home every few days (no way is he going to risk bringing the entire trunk over there) and stays awake in his cupboard for hours on end, reading by torchlight. He drinks in the knowledge of his mother's past, her adventures and misadventures in the world of magic; he learns the story of how she met his father, how they came to despise and eventually accept, and then love each other. . . all in the time of a terrible war.

He learns about the bigotry in that world, about the hatred and chaos spread by those who hungered for power, about the lives that were lost in the name of purity of blood and preservation of heritage.

A child of his age shouldn't be learning of such things. A child of his age shouldn't be able to even understand such things. . .

But Harry does. He, who has known nothing but contempt and hatred at the hands of others, understands exactly what his mother must have gone through in the world of magic. He understands the hatred that one faces by being different, the pain that one faces due to circumstances beyond one's control. . .

When he realizes the true magnitude of what his mother has accomplished despite the odds being stacked against her, his respect for her only grows. The bitterness that had long since become a part of him thanks to the Dursleys slandering of his parents' names fades slowly, to be replaced by honest admiration.

The world itself was against his mother, but still she had persevered. She fought hard, she found friends who cared for her and people like his father who loved her what she was, and she won. She may have died, but she still won in the end!

And for the first time in his life, Harry feels a completely different emotion burgeoning in his chest. Something which he had only heard of until now, but never had much reason to feel:

Hope.

He finds himself hoping that he can make his parents proud one day, that like his mother he can find someone who will love him for what he is, and that he can become strong enough to fight for them.

* * *

The headaches are becoming practically unbearable now.

Fortunately, his mother comes to his rescue once again.

Rooting around in the trunk for something that might help him understand his crippling headaches, he finds an interesting book on something called the Mind Arts.

 _Occlumency. . . .  
_

Harry finds that occlumency is a lot like those meditation techniques that he has read about in school library books. All it requires is for him to spend a few hours with his eyes closed, calmly sorting through the thoughts in his head and performing breathing exercises. It isn't easy but he is nothing if not persistent, and in four months the headaches are down to manageable levels.

Another thing that the occlumency helps him with is the visions in his head. Earlier, the visions triggered at random times, leaving him in a trance-like state. But now he's able to control it enough so that the he sees the strange memories only when he's sleeping.

It is then that he reads about something called Legilimency, supposedly the opposite of occlumency. Out of sheer morbid curiosity, he follows his mother's instructions and starts learning the strange art.

And a whole new world opens up to him.

When Harry realizes that he can actually read the thoughts of others, he can barely contain his excitement. This is exactly like some of those shows on the telly the Dursleys watch during dinner, only it's not a trick of any sort. It's the real deal!

Of course, it's not exactly 'mind reading' that he's doing. It's more like pulling out a few images from the surface thoughts of the people around him; it didn't make much sense when he did it only once, but a couple of repeat scans were enough for him to guess what they were thinking about.

Of course, if his mother's notes are to be believed, it would take years of practice for him to be proficient in the art. He definitely isn't skilled enough to be reading the mind of another magical. But non-magical folks on the other hand. . .

Piece of cake.

Therefore, it is with much enthusiasm that he takes to his chores in the garden. Digging away in the dirt is the perfect excuse for him to spend most of his time outside, scanning the minds of passers-by with ease.

It is during one such legilimency attempt that he picks up something interesting.

Apparently Vernon is plotting something. That little stunt with Marge's dog has shaken up the fat man more than Harry had expected, and whatever ideas the fool has gotten into his head does not bode well for him.

A repeat scan during the night only confirms it: Vernon is planning to kill him.

Harry is more amused than terrified when he learns this, and to be honest he's also slightly impressed. He'd never have guessed that Vernon actually _had_ it in him to kill somebody. His walrus of an uncle was a coward who enjoyed showing off his power to his underlings and his weak nephew.

Then again, whatever Vernon's faults might be, he is a family man through and through. The love he has for his family is genuine, and Harry himself can attest to the fact that there is little he will not do to protect them.

Too bad that wouldn't be enough to save him, though.

Harry goes back to weeding the garden, idly wondering how he's going to draw out his beloved Uncle's suffering as much as possible.

* * *

 ** _25 June, 1990._**

Vernon Dursely's tragic demise has caused many changes in the Dursely household.

Many of which Harry approves of.

He moves into Dudley's other bedroom, the fat boy's whining significantly less than Harry had expected. He supposes that even someone as dull as Dudley would be affected by his father's untimely death, or his little talk with Petunia worked better than he'd expected.

He feels a small twinge of unease over taking his cousin's father away from him, but squashes it ruthlessly. His dearly departed uncle would not have thought twice about putting him down like a stray dog, so why should _h_ e feel guilty?

Besides, he has much bigger concerns right now. Like this Dumbledore fellow.

Harry glares at the parchment in his hand, the handwriting of the man who left him on the doorstep of this hell-hole causing the bile to rise in his throat. He remembers the image of Albus Dumbledore that he plucked from his aunt's wretched mind, and imagines himself throttling the old fool with his own beard.

With great difficulty, he clamps down on the desire to tear the letter into a hundred pieces. It is the only clue he has about that old man, and he's not about to throw it away so carelessly.

Not to mention he still hasn't figured out everything written in there.

 _Blood Wards._

He still doesn't understand what it means. The only reason he's even considering their existence is because of some of things his mother had mentioned in her notes, about looking into something called 'blood magic' for protection from this Voldemort bloke.

And that's another piece of the puzzle. . .

For the life of him, Harry can't understand the connection between him and this Dark Lord. The way his mother writes in her journal leads him to believe that this Voldemort fellow (what kind of a name was that anyway?) was after his family for some reason.

But why!?

His eyes wander to one of the thickest journals in his mother's collection. There is a note on it in his mother's handwriting, instructing him to read it last.

Harry sighs. He has more or less gone through everything else his mother left him, even if he doesn't necessarily understand all of it. This the only diary left, and he _is_ rather desperate for answers. . .

He heaves a long sigh and sits down on his bed, the heavy journal balanced on his lap.

It's time to get some real answers.

* * *

It takes him a good five months to piece everything together.

By that time, his tenth birthday has come and gone, and he is already looking forward to the next year, when his Hogwarts letter will finally arrive.

He stands before a small blackboard he stole from the school's garbage bin, contemplating the words written in brightly colored chalk.

 _Voldemort. . . . Prophecy. . . Dumbledore. . . Horcrux. . ._

A tangled web if he's ever seen one.

Yet, he is closer to solving the mystery that is his life than he ever was. He can feel it.

Harry decides to go over the facts one-by-one.

Fact: Someone made a prophecy about a child destined to defeat this Voldemort bloke.

Fact: His parents went into hiding because Voldemort believed that child was him.

Fact: Voldemort tracked down and killed his parents, but his mother performed this blood magic thingy and defeated him.

Fact: His mother suspected that Voldemort had made Horcruxes, or 'soul jars' as she called them, which protected him from death. But she had no proof.

Fact: Dumbledore believed that Voldemort was still alive, and left Harry with the Dursleys to keep his mother's protection alive.

All these are indisputable facts. But none of that explains why he keeps seeing someone else's memories inside his head!

Harry bites his lip and looks at his mother's notes again. It's somewhere in there. He _knows_ that. But where. . . ?

Then something hits him.

He rifles through the pages again; where had he seen it now . . ? Aha!

He runs his finger over the real name of Lord Voldemort, something his mother claimed that few people in the magical world were aware of.

Tom Marvolo Riddle. Born in Wool's Orphanage, 31st of December 1926. Hogwarts batch of 1938.

 _Tom. . ._

He knows that name. Knows it well. In his visions, he has often seen that name being thrown around.

Mostly it's thrown at him.

His eyes widen in surprise.

"Oh bloody buggering hell. . ."

Somehow, that seems to sum up his predicament perfectly.

* * *

 ** _24 June, 1991._**

"Hooligan. . ."

"Filthy little urchin. . ."

"Did you hear. . ."

"Yes, so horrible. . ."

"St Brutus' they say. . ."

"Keep getting younger, these delinquents. . ."

"Why, in my day. . ."

He sighs as he makes his usual trip to the public library. It seems he had greatly underestimated Petunia's vindictiveness.

While his aunt had been careful to keep her mouth shut for some time, her gossip-mongering nature had eventually gotten the better of her; and knowing there was little she could do to avenge her husband's death, she resorted to getting back at him the only way she knew: rumor-mongering.

And so it was that Harry was now known as the neighbourhood's official troublemaker, and all-round juvenile delinquent. No doubt even now that petty shrew was sitting in someone's home, moaning about how hard she had to work for the upkeep of her ungrateful nephew. The fat paycheck she received from Grunnings for Vernon's insurance is very conveniently forgotten.

Harry himself does not care what the sheep of Privet Drive think of him. He has bigger things to worry about. His birthday is barely a week away, and with it will come his Hogwarts letter: his ticket into the magical world. Everything he has been working towards for the past two years, all the books on strategy and tactics he has read, all the practice with the Mind Arts, all the time spent practicing wand-movements with a stick in his room, using Tom's memories and his mother's school notes to burn the complicated movements into his muscle-memory. . . everything will come to face him, and he _must_ be ready for it. He does not have the luxury of worrying about the worthless opinions of people who have nothing to do with him or his world.

That doesn't make their whispering and pointing any less annoying though.

"Troublesome brat. . ."

"Criminal behavior at this age, I tell you. . ."

"Bloody renegades like that. . ."

He cocks his head to the side. Renegade? What the heck is that!? In the past few months he has heard every possible variation of the word 'troublemaker' in the English language.

So what's a _renegade_ supposed to be?

He makes a mental note to look it up in the library. Always a good idea to add to one's vocabulary when you can.

Hours later, Harry rests his head against the library table. He has read the diary about his mother's life at Hogwarts so many times now he can probably recite it in his sleep; and in doing so he has learned a great deal about the magical world, even more than most pureblood children his age, to say nothing about the muggleborns. But he knows he must be careful not to show any of it. As far as the Wizarding world is concerned, he was raised by muggles. Showing off too much of his skill and knowledge would lead to all kinds of awkward questions.

He must be particularly careful around that Dumbledore character. The man was a wildcard, an unknown; and while Petunia's memories did paint him as someone sympathetic to his plight, Harry still couldn't help but feel some disdain for the man who left him in the care of those vultures. Even his mother's notes warned him not to trust the old man completely, no matter how tempting it might seem. There's a good chance the old bugger would send one of his stooges to collect him on his birthday, or he might turn up himself. Harry would have to be very, very careful to act as natural as possible. You only got one chance to make an impression, after all.

More to distract himself than anything else, Harry pulls out a thesaurus and absently combs through the 'R' words. And that is where he sees it:

 _Renegade ˈrɛnɪɡeɪd/ noun_

 _noun:_ _ **renegade**_ _; plural noun:_ _ **renegades**_

 _a person who deserts and betrays an organization, country, or set of principles._

 _a person who behaves in a rebelliously unconventional manner._

He actually laughs at that. Really, _this_ is what a renegade is!? A rebel!? Is that what people think of him?

He feels more amused than insulted by the stupidity of the neighbourhood sheep. Really, Dudley and his gang stomp around Privet Drive bullying and beating up other kids in broad daylight, and _he's_ supposed to be the renegade? He suppresses a snort of mirth: how in the hell do people come up with such tripe?

But then again, he muses, should he really be surprised? These were the very same people who thought of Vernon and Petunia as honest, upstanding citizens; the very same people who turned a blind eye to a five-year old child weeding gardens and working like a servant; the very same people who sniffed in disdain at anything that was at odds with their world-view, who would have willingly sat back and watched a child die simply because he was 'unnatural'.

He looks up at one of the framed quotes on the wall. "Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself."

 _Of course_ , he thinks with a sneer. _It's always about changing yourself, since there is no way the world can **ever** be in the wrong._

If there is one thing that Harry has learned in his life, it is that only those who were incredibly strong (or those who were incredibly crazy) could ascribe to such world-views. Despite what people may say, it is not the individual who is always at fault. A society as a whole can be wrong about something, a group of people can openly ascribe to injustice and still sleep peacefully at night.

In such cases, to say 'I can change myself' may as well be a declaration of your surrender. It means conforming to a cruel, cold-hearted and unjust world. It means accepting defeat and subordination. It is cowardice of the highest order.

Whatever else Harry might he, he is _not_ a coward.

If refusing to bow before a society that held a child's innocence in such contempt is defiance, then yes he is a rebel. If refusing to conform to the view that anything different and unique is to be treated with hatred and fear is unconventional, then yes he is a renegade!

After all, why should he stand up for a society that shows only apathy to the oppressed!? Why should he fight for people who encourage others to put down those that dare to be different!?

And that goes double for the Wizarding world.

His hands clench into fists as he recalls how the world of magic treated people like his mother. Branding them with the word ' _mudblood_ ', telling them that their worth in their world was next to nothing simply because of their parentage!

His mother's writing has always been clinical and detached when she describes the bigotry in Magical Britain, but there are brief moments when he can almost feel her rage flowing through the pages. The righteous anger, the barely restrained hatred for those who claim that her blood was worth little more than dirt to those with magic in her families; for those with a misguided sense of superiority, for those who believe that having power automatically gives you the right to crush those who do not, simply because you can.

He does not care for such people. He does not care for the sheep who sit back and allow themselves to be culled because they are too cowardly to lift a finger in their own defense.

His goal is clear: he wants to find Voldemort, the man responsible for taking his family away and destroy him. Utterly.

He will lay siege to Magical Britain, he will destroy all those who stand in his way, he will lie and cheat and do whatever it takes to rid the world of the man who took his one chance at happiness away from him. . .

And if a corrupt society must pay the price for it, then so be it.

He traces his hand softly over the word.

"Bloody renegade," he whispers with a smile.

He can't help but think it describes him perfectly.

* * *

 ** _1 September, 1991._**

The magical steam engine gleams in the sunlight, huffing and puffing on the platform packed with people. Parents and children mulling about, shouts of joy, exclamations of greetings and goodbyes everywhere the eye can see.

And in the midst of it all, he is there. Striding with his back straight, his emerald eyes staring straight ahead, unperturbed by the incessant whispering and finger-pointing. Pushing his trolley effortlessly, his snowy-owl Hedwig balanced on top, he cuts an imposing figure on the platform with his well-fitted clothes and his confident demeanor. Proud. Unyielding. Looking every inch the hero the Wizarding world believes him to be.

Today marks the day of a new beginning, both for Harry Potter and the Wizarding world. Today marks the day a renegade will take his first steps to shake the very foundations of British Magical Society.

Harry suppresses a small smirk. These people don't know what's about to hit them.

* * *

 **AN: I will admit right now that I have used quite a few fanon cliches in this chapter, but I have done my best to connect them in an unconventional way. While I personally dislike the whole "Gringotts handles Wizarding wills" part, I still used it here because it served its purpose. On the bright side, there will be no overly friendly goblins in this fic. Their role will be similar to that in canon; as in, they don't care enough about wizards to take a side. End of story.**

 **Now as you've seen, the Harry who enters Hogwarts is very different from the one we've seen so far in the story. He's angry, he's upset and he's borderline obsessed with killing Voldemort and his supporters. Hence his skewed interpretation of the famous saying.** **Note the manner in which his brief bout of idealism after finding Lily's notes is quickly overtaken by a pessimistic world-view, something rather unsurprising given how he's been treated all his life.**

 **For all the power and intelligence he's gained by absorbing Voldemort's soul fragment, he is still an eleven-year-old kid who's been largely abused for his whole life. Do recall that this damaged mentality was hinted at in chapter 3 when he broke Snape's legs just because he insulted Lily. Regardless of whether Snape deserved it or not, such extreme behavior is not the sign of a healthy mind. And that's not even going into the way he subtly manipulates everyone around him throughout the first ten chapters, even if it is for their own good.  
**

 **Which begs the question, how does a revenge-obsessed renegade who spits on the Wizarding world go on to become a leader who wishes to lead society in a new direction? And how on earth did Lily Potter manage to plan for such contingencies in such extreme detail?  
**

 **Stay tuned to find out :)  
**

 **Also, a small challenge for my readers: I've noticed that, despite having a good eye for detail, absolutely none of you folks have managed to pick out the biggest plot-hole in the story. The one plot-hole I intentionally left behind hoping that someone would call me out on that. The one detail that, had anyone caught on to, would have helped you deduce much of what is being revealed right now pretty early on.  
**

 **So, here's the thing: try going back and reading some of the earliest chapters. It should be fairly easy to pin-point. The plot-point will be resolved in the next couple of chapters though, so you'd better hurry up! :)**


	27. Recollections - II

**AN: Happy holidays , everyone :)**

 **Oh, and regarding that plot-twist I mentioned, I'm afraid only one person has come closest to figuring it out. You folks might wanna step up your game cause the revelation's due in the next chapter.**

 **Now on with the story. . .**

* * *

 ** _1991._**

A wise man once said that power, in its purest form, was the ability to influence the hearts and minds of others. As such, power was everything.

Harry smirks whenever he thinks about that. Whoever said that had no clue as to how the world really ran.

Power isn't everything, it's the _only_ thing.

Right here, within the magnificent walls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry has the distinction of being the most famous and powerful student there is. Nothing is out his reach, nowhere he cannot go, no individual ignorant of his status. . .

And the best part: he barely had to work to get it.

Oh, there were a few hiccups initially. He had to work to convince the bloody Sorting Hat to put him in Gryffindor (where else could the Boy-Who-Lived go?) and he had to be really careful to avoid Dumbledore's prying eyes (the twinkly-eyed bugger was Master Legilimens), but all in all it was a lot easier than he dared to hope.

It amuses him when he sees how easy it is manipulate others into doing his bidding. A bright smile here, a kind word there and bam! People are practically falling over each other to do his bidding.

The legendary reputation of the Boy-Who-Lived only serves to make things easier for him. Almost all the students in the castle have been brought up on stories of his supposed heroics and skill, and those who haven't have long-since been brought up to speed. Watching him now, seeing him present such a larger-than-life figure even as a simple first-year is like seeing one's wildest dreams being realized. He is, quite literally, a personification of everything they wanted to see in their hero.

Meanwhile, he finds himself laughing inwardly at idiots like Draco Malfoy, and their less-than-successful attempts at building a power-base. Honestly, do these fools really think that showing off their money like arrogant berks is going to buy the respect of the people around them, especially in their first-year? Have they never heard of the saying about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar?

Then again, he muses, all that inbreeding has to show somewhere.

Harry is different, however. As someone who's spent his entire life watching others closely, he knows exactly what to do to impress the crowd. He knows that actions speak far louder than words, and that a controlled display of skill tempered with the right combination of humility can take him farther than most. It is thanks to this mentality that he has the student population of Hogwarts eating out of the palm of his hand in less than a month.

And his admirers aren't restricted to students alone. It is with a pleasant surprise that he realizes that the teachers are fawning over him just as badly.

The knowledge from Tom's memories and all the hours spent learning from his mother's notes are paying off more dividends than he'd imagined. This, combined with his natural born power and an affinity for magic, makes him appear like a prodigy in the classroom. There is no spell he cannot master on the first try, no question on magical theory he cannot answer.

The reactions to this controlled display of skill is vastly entertaining: Flitwick practically bounces on the ceiling whenever Harry steps into the Charms classroom, McGonagall never lets a single class go without comparing him to his father, Snape looks like he's about to have a coronary whenever he submits his potion after class. . .

The last one in particular never fails to put Harry in a good mood.

This is where the genius of his plan kicks in. Unlike others, Harry never hesitates to share the benefits of his knowledge with others. He's always up for helping his year-mates with their homework, regardless of their house or gender. He offers his assistance freely, seemingly without any strings attached and his peers lap it up like a kitten feasting on fresh cream.

And why wouldn't they? He is the legendary Boy-Who-Lived, after all! They are honored to simply be in the same room as him. Merely observing him during lessons is a huge thing to write home about. Getting help from him in their studies is the equivalent of getting an autographed novelty from their dearest celebrity.

But Harry is no fool. He knows that, despite his best efforts, he cannot keep this up forever. It won't be long before the novelty of being helped by the Boy-Who-Lived wears off, and the ugly head of jealousy starts to rear. Even his status as star Seeker for Gryffindor, which he accepted solely as a means to boost his fame, as he doesn't particularly like quidditch (he enjoys flying more), would not be enough then. Harry knows that for his plans to work, the public's sense of awe towards him must remain strong. He must continue to look mysterious, unattainable. . . a symbol beyond their grasp.

So he moves to the next stage of his plan: he starts building a following. Like all great leaders, he needs his own bunch of underlings whose loyalty he can command absolutely. If he must go up against Voldemort (and Dumbledore, if the need arises) he needs to have his own followers, his own little army to match, if not beat that of the Dark Lord's.

Most people in this situation would've started seeking out allies within the influential pureblood families. But not Harry. Oh no, he thrives on being different, on doing the impossible! He knows only too well the power of the oppressed, the anger that lays simmering among the less fortunate members of any society; if he must have people he can rely on, it must be those who share his rage, so that he can wield it as a weapon against his enemies.

After all, loyalty which is bought and paid for is scarcely reliable. But loyalty which is earned through actions and deeds can defy even the test of time.

So he looks towards the outcasts, the downtrodden of the Wizarding world. His first allies are the Weasleys, a pureblood family with progressive ideals that have since paid the price for it. He befriends the youngest brother Ronald, a simple-minded boy whose biggest concern in life is being overshadowed by his siblings. All Harry has to do is stoke his insecurities, pad up his ego and then give him a little bit of direction. Voila: he has his loyal pawn ready to do his bidding.

The next is Neville Longbottom, scion of an influential pureblood house. The pudgy boy is not without problems of his own, and Harry is quick to see the lack of a strong influential figure in his life. He moves to fill that void, becoming someone that the boy looks up to. He teaches the lad to stand up for himself, to fight like a real Gryffindor; all it takes is a tiny revelation of his own history with bullying and spouting some motivational bull and Longbottom has become one of his.

The final addition to his collection is Hermione Granger, an extremely intelligent muggleborn witch. Her bossy attitude and noticeable lack of communication skills make her a social outcast, something that Harry is quick to capitalize on. An unlucky encounter with a mountain troll gives him the opening he needs to ride in to her rescue like a knight in shining armor, reinforcing the heroic image of the Boy-Who-Lived; and while the aftermath does leave a bitter taste in his Housemates' mouths, it ends with Harry securing the undying devotion of one of the most talented witches in the school. A perfect win-win situation.

The sheer brilliance of his handiwork leads him to indulge in a brief moment of self-admiration. While usually not one for patting himself on the back, Harry can't help but feel a little smug at how well things are playing out for him. By restricting his inner circle to those three, he has made himself an even more enigmatic figure, since almost everyone would expect the Boy-Who-Lived to be rubbing shoulders with the more influential members of his society. A small group serves to enhance his sense of intrigue, as more people start competing to become one of the chosen few whom Harry Potter lavishes his attention on.

There's also the unexpected benefit of establishing Harry firmly on the Light side since his closest "friends" include a muggleborn, the heir of a famous pro-Light pureblood family and a so-called "blood-traitor"; and while one could bemoan the fact that any chances of alliances with the Darker families have been ruined, Harry himself isn't too worried. There's plenty of time in the future for unusual alliances, and if he has to be perfectly honest with himself, he hates those stuck-up blood-supremacist bastards anyway. Considering that he plans on slaughtering most of them by the time he's done with Magical Britain, he honestly doesn't care.

But his greatest achievement so far is the fact that he has completely eliminated any need of having to watch his back around his allies! Weasley, Longbottom and Granger are Gryffindors to the core. The three of them don't have enough cunning between them to fill a thimble, and are too much in awe of him to look too closely at any of his actions.

And yet. . .

And yet he feels disturbed. For some reason, he feels a strange disquiet; a feeling of unease slowly growing within his heart.

But why? What does he have to feel so nervous about? Everything's going exactly as he'd planned. Heck, everything's turning out even better than he'd hoped! This was what he'd wanted, after all.

Wasn't it?

This strange sense of melancholy causes him to slowly spend some time apart. He goes to the owlery to seek solace in the comfort of his one true friend and confidant, his snowy-owl Hedwig. When he's sure that they're alone, when his strongest privacy wards are up, he confides in his feathery friend. He speaks of his hopes, his dreams and his growing fears. He wonders why he's feeling this extreme sense of discomfort whenever he's around the other three. He hopes that by releasing his pent-up frustration to a sympathetic soul he will find comfort; reassurance that he's doing the right thing. He hopes that it will make it easier the next time he has to look his three companions in the eye and lie to their faces.

It doesn't.

Eventually he's forced to confront the truth he's been avoiding for so long: that somewhere down the line, despite his best efforts to keep things as impersonal as possible, he has come to _care_ for them. Somewhere down the line Weasley became Ron, Longbottom became Neville, and Granger became Hermione.

For all he has tried his hardest to cloak himself in a perpetual aura of mystery, he finds himself slowly letting his guard down before his three constant companions. Hermione's overbearing nature makes him think of the bossy sister he's never had, Ron's enthusiasm for all things quidditch has slowly but steadily infected him as well, Neville's steady progress from a shy child to an assertive kid fills him with a pride he has never felt before. . .

And it's not just them: the Twins' contagious sense of humor, the Study Group's meetings gradually growing, the teachers' strange quirks, all the time spent on the quidditch pitch has brought a sense of belonging, not just to the House but to the school as well.

Heck, even Dumbledore's starting to grow on him! Harry came to the castle fully prepared to despise the decrepit bugger, but finds it harder to do so with each passing day. The return of his family heirloom and the sudden and unexpected honesty from the man regarding his sister threw Harry completely off-balance, and he's hence been forced to revise his opinion of the headmaster from "evil old goat" to simply "crazy old goat".

To his dismay, he realizes that he has actually come to _like_ Hogwarts. That in spite of his genuine burning desire to tear out the Wizarding world by the roots, he has come to form a strange kinship with this magical place of learning and wonder; which is, ironically, at the very heart of the society he has set out to annihilate.

And this worries him. It worries him a lot.

He is a warrior, a soldier on a mission. His quest is that of vengeance and destruction, not justice and sentimentality. He can't afford to go around feeling things like. . . like _attachment_!

And yet he does. Merlin help him, he does! He can't deny something that's right in front of him; it's simply not in his nature to do so.

He _does_ , however, wonder where all this is coming from; when all this started.

He supposes it began when he celebrated his first Christmas at Hogwarts. When the entire Weasley brood, Hermione and Neville stayed behind because he would be alone; and together they made such a mess of the Gryffindor common room that McGonagall screamed at them for an hour.

Or perhaps it began when the four of them started to frequent Hagrid's cabin. What started as a quest to gather more information on Dumbledore from the gullible half-giant quickly became such a regular part of Harry's school life that he almost completely forgot about the real reason he went there.

He remembers one particular wintry weekend, when he was relaxing with a mug of tea while staring out of the cottage window; Neville playing (and losing) a casual game of chess with Ron, and Hermione engaging Hagrid in a conversation on the many magical creatures in the Forbidden Forest.

In that moment, Harry truly felt content. With the warm fire cracking merrily behind him, Fang the bulldog slobbering on his lap and Hedwig snoozing gently on his shoulder, he had never felt more at ease in his life. Not "happy" perhaps, but something far more important: satisfied. It was a moment he wished could go on forever, where there were no wars and Dark Lords, where he could be a regular child with normal hopes and dreams.

But that was impossible. He could never have normal life. Voldemort had made sure of that.

Now as he stands atop the Astronomy tower, gazing into the sunset, he cannot help but feel disgusted with himself.

 _Weak, pathetic_. . . these are the words which run through his mind. Hogwarts has spoiled him! Three square meals a day, a warm bed, and a few laughs with arse-kissing syncophants has softened him up so much that even Dudley and his brain-dead pals could get the drop on him now. Barely a year into this place and he has already forgotten about the real world, and the real reason he came back to Magical Britain in the first place!

Unacceptable.

He narrows his eyes in determination. It's time to make the next move.

* * *

"There, that should do it," Madam Pomfrey declares as she straightens up.

"Will he be alright?" Hermione asks anxiously.

"It's just a small concussion, Ms Granger. He'll be right as rain in no time." She turns towards Harry. "Speaking of which, how are you feeling, Mr Potter?"

"What?" He blinks in surprise. "I'm-I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Ms Granger tells me you drank some kind of potion." She hits him with a dozen different charms. "Hmm, doesn't see like there's anything wrong. . ."

"I'm fine," he repeats automatically, still too nonplussed to think straight.

"If you're sure," the Matron says, looking him up and down. "You still look dead on your feet, though. Perhaps you should stay the night. . ."

"No!" he exclaims. "I mean-no, I'm fine, Madam Pomfrey. I just. . . need some sleep. . . yeah. ."

"Very well. I suggest you get to bed then."

"But. . ."

"We'll be fine, Harry," Neville says reassuringly. "We'll just stay here for a bit and then return to the dorms."

"Are you sure?" Harry asks, once again staring at Ron's unconscious form.

"Yes, we are," Hermione says, still holding onto the redhead's hand with both of her own. "You should get some sleep, Harry. We'll talk in the morning."

"If you're sure," he says softly before walking away. It is only after the doors of the Hospital Wing close behind him that he relaxes slightly.

It all seemed so simple back then. He wanted to put the abilities of his friends to the test, so he convinced them that Snape was trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone (a laughable idea, since Harry knows that the man is as loyal as a mutt to Dumbledore). It was supposed to be a simple task: get in, get past the Cerberus (a simple Sleeping Charm did the trick) and work through whatever other defenses Dumbledore had planted there. A reckless plan to be sure, but Harry was reasonably certain that the toothless old worm wouldn't put something too dangerous inside his precious school.

Any reservations he had about the affair were squashed by a reminder of the prize that lay at the end of obstacle course: the Philosopher's Stone. An artifact like that would be invaluable in his war against the Dark Lord.

As anticipated, the initial challenges were ludicrously easy, and Harry amused himself by holding back and letting his three minions work through them. But then they arrived in the chess room, and everything went to hell in an instant.

He shakes his head violently. Honestly, what the hell was Ron thinking!? Offering himself as a sacrifice just to win a game? Was he really so thick that he would put his life on the line to save something that didn't even _belong_ to him!?

And Hermione. . . she was another surprise. Harry fully expected her to burst into hysterics at the sight of Ron lying unconscious on the floor. Instead, she ordered Neville to stay with him, and dragged Harry to the next room. She stood by his side while he battled a troll (undoubtedly an unnerving experience for her) and was right beside him until he departed for the final chamber.

Now, she and Neville were sitting in the infirmary beside a sleeping Ron. Fully aware that their grand adventure had been for nothing (Harry almost cursed the twinkly-eyed old codger when he informed them that the Stone was a fake) but showing not an iota of anger or displeasure towards him.

But why? He put their lives on the line, didn't he? Those two were smart enough to figure that out; so why weren't they saying anything?

And more importantly, why the hell is he feeling so guilty about it!?

Unbidden, Madam Pomfrey's words come back to him: "It's just a concussion."

 _Just a concussion. . ._ He snorts. Yeah, right.

He absently traces a hand over his head, the place where his own skull had been split open years ago thanks to Vernon's temper tantrum; and he might never admit it aloud, but watching Ron fall to the chess piece was the closest he has ever come to panicking in the last few years.

He, more than anyone else, knows just how serious a head injury can be. Pomfrey may have spouted empty platitudes to reassure the other two, but she hadn't fooled him for a second. He knows that, had the Queen's club hit Ron's head at a slightly different angle, the situation would have turned out far worse than it had. Hell, it probably _was_ far worse. There was no way to tell how bad Ron was until he woke up.

Permanent brain damage and even death was a very real possibility when on got hit on the head, something that a quidditch-aficionado like Ron was at least partially aware of. And medicinal magic, while extremely advanced, was nowhere near good enough to heal brain injuries. Neville's parents were living proof of that.

Yet he had been willing to risk it, simply because Harry told him to! Even subconsciously knowing that getting hit by a giant stone monster could mean a end to his quidditch dreams, he had gone ahead with it. Whether it was out of a misplaced sense of loyalty or a genuine unshakable faith in Harry's judgement was anybody's guess.

This realization fills him with an overwhelming feeling of shame. For the first time in a long while, Harry feels a genuine sense of remorse over what he's done.

What right does he have to put the lives of others at risk? What right does he have to drag innocent children into his personal vendetta? He, who has always despised Albus Dumbledore for leaving him at the Dursleys' doorstep, has now become the very thing he abhors: a schemer who plays with the lives of children.

And all for what: to prove a point!? The first real friends he's ever had in his life, and he was willing to throw them away just to prove that he could!

He remembers the moment when Dumbledore found him in the final chamber, staring blankly at the Mirror of Erised. He remembers the sight of his father's grinning face, his mother smiling up at him with those bright green eyes full of kindness and joy.

What would she think of him now? If she could see what he's become, would she be proud of him? What would Lily Potter, someone who spent her youth fighting a war she could have easily run away from, think of a son who gambled the lives of innocents for his own sick pleasure?

He does not know the answers to those questions. What he does know, however, is that sleep will not come easily to him tonight.

* * *

 ** _31 July, 1992._**

"Happy Birthday, Harry!"

He accepts the large parcel with a smile on his face, politely thanking Mr Weasley.

But his reaction is only superficial. For the first time in his life, Harry is truly at a loss at how to react.

When Ron invited him to spend the holidays with him, he accepted without thinking it over, partly out of a sense of guilt for what the boy had been forced to endure because of him, and partly because it got him out the Dursley home a bit earlier.

He was not prepared to have his first ever birthday party.

The ritual with the cake and candles is a bit awkward, but he adapts quickly. And while the rest of the Weasleys, Hermione and Neville don't seem to mind, he does note the manner in which Mr Weasley's eyes tighten around the corner and Mrs Weasley's lips purse when he hesitates momentarily.

He is reminded once again of one of his mother's earliest lessons on never underestimating people. The Weasleys may be poor, but they're far from unintelligent. Harry realizes, rather suddenly, that this odd-looking couple managed to conceive and raise six children in a time of war, and still came out relatively unscathed. An impossible feat, unless they were more perceptive than they appeared to be.

One thing is for sure, he thinks with a smirk, he would not want to be in Petunia's shoes the next time they met.

But now, as he sits around the cramped kitchen, he finds himself dealing with another conundrum.

A year ago, he came into this world with an intention of waging war. The only thing on his mind was the destruction of Lord Voldemort and his supporters, and anything not related to his goals was irrelevant.

He got far more than he bargained for.

A year ago, he was alone. With nothing but the memories of a dead parent as his companion, and an owl the closest thing to a confidant he had, he was a lone warrior on a quest for vengeance.

But now. . .

Now he has _friends_. Three good, loyal friends who would storm the gates of hell for him. Now he has people like Hagrid and the Weasleys, who invite him into their homes and offer him their affection even though he has done nothing to earn it. Even when they have little to gain, even when he himself cannot help but feel undeserving of it.

It is, to put it mildly, an uncomfortable feeling.

He stares at the pile of presents lying near his feet, a large slice of chocolate cake in one hand. Everything he's ever wanted is being granted to him when he's least expecting it, when he's least ready for it. If there's a greater irony in this universe, he's yet to see it.

A part of him feels like he's being suffocated by all this people. It wants nothing more than to violently reject it, to go back to the abandoned building which was once his refuge, and lock himself away. . .

But another part of him wants to stay, wants to revel in this new-found sense of happiness. This part reminds him of his parents' sacrifice, reminds him of how much was lost so that he may come this far.

" _It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."_

Wasn't that exactly what he was doing, obsessing over his dreams of retribution? He fully intends to destroy Voldemort, but that doesn't mean he has to sacrifice his entire life for it. After all, when everything's said and done he's still a twelve-year old kid; he has his whole life to look forward to. His own tendency for theatrics aside, his childhood was far from over.

Hagrid himself had said that Harry's parents fought until their last breath to protect him. It would be an insult to their sacrifice, and insult to all the effort his mother put in, if he didn't at least attempt to enjoy his life while he could.

He takes another bite of the delicious cake. Huh, what d'you know: looks like the old fart made sense every once in a while.

"Hey Harry," George calls out suddenly. "Up for a Quidditch game?"

"You're on!" he shouts back, hurriedly scarfing up the rest of the cake and dashing upstairs for his broom.

His revenge would not be denied, that was for certain. But right now, there's no harm in acting his age for a while.

* * *

 ** _15 November, 1992._**

He walks across the corridors under his Cloak, his feet moving across the stone floor with nary a sound, his eyes alert and continually scanning his surroundings.

Ever since the attack on Filch's cat on Halloween, an atmosphere of fear has seeped into the very walls of the castle; made all the worse by the rumors of the re-opening of the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry himself cares not a whit about the caretaker's miserable feline. But the idea that someone is going around using _his_ basilisk (at least, that's how he sees her) to attack random creatures in the hallways and quoting obscure Hogwarts lore infuriates him to no end.

Hogwarts is _his_ domain, his home! The place has given him more than he's ever asked for. The very idea that someone is attempting to desecrate it, and that too while using Sephiria as a scapegoat, is enough to make his blood boil.

Only this time, rage isn't enough to solve the problem.

Of course, he's taken a few precautions. He's even attempted to sneak into the Chamber and divine the attacker's identity from the Basilisk herself, but she seems unwilling or unable to do so. No doubt Slytherin had had the foresight to cover his heir's tracks.

And this so-called "Heir" is another mystery. Harry still hasn't managed to figure out his identity, though he's pretty certain it's not someone within Slytherin house. Were that the case Snape, and by extension Dumbledore, would have ferreted him out by now.

He can sense something about the Chamber's history in Tom's memories, but they're much too faint for him to get anything conclusive. He is vaguely aware that something similar happened when the Dark Wanker was at Hogwarts and he's fairly certain that the gobshite was the one responsible, but he has no proof; not to mention it's hard to pinpoint the correct memory in the jumbled mess inside his head. There's nothing in his mother's diaries either.

For the first time since he's entered the school, he feels a sense of helplessness. This Chamber business is the first real challenge he has ever faced where his two greatest trump cards are of no use.

Naturally this makes him all the more determined to solve it.

Now on one of his night-time patrols, his mind runs over all the strange happenings of the last few months. He recalls his furtive conversation with that crazed house-elf who accosted him in the Weasleys' orchard during the holidays, bringing warnings of great danger and insidious plots at the school. He wonders who that house-elf belongs to and why it's trying so hard to protect him, and whether it's warnings have anything to do with. . . .

A sudden sound cuts off from his thoughts. Recognizing that it's not Filch or Peeves or any of the usual suspects, he turns around warily.

"Who's there!?" he barks, hoping to startle the stranger.

There is no visible response, but he can clearly make out the sound of shuffling feet from behind a nearby tapestry. He sighs and takes off his Invisibility Cloak. "Dobby, if that's you, I swear I'm absolutely safe . ."

He blinks in surprise at the sight of a small girl huddling into the hanging cloth.

"Dobby? I have been called lots of things, but never a dobby." She has dirty blonde hair, large protuberant eyes and a rather dreamy quality to her voice; and doesn't even seem slightly perturbed by his sudden appearance "What is a dobby, Harry Potter?"

He resists the urge to gape at the girl. "What are you doing here!?"

"Hmmm. . . oh, the Nargles took my things and barred the way to the Ravenclaw tower. I tried knocking several times but nothing happened. The Blubbering Humdinger is no doubt blocking the way." Her eyes are fixed firmly at a point just above his right ear.

He doesn't pay much attention to her ramblings, instead observing her carefully. The girl is small and he's never seen her before, so she's probably a first year. She's wearing nothing but a slim night gown, which explained why she was wrapping herself into the tapestry. He also notices that she is rubbing both of her naked feet together, no doubt fighting off the cold.

He slowly understands. "What's your name?" he asks quietly.

"I'm Looney - I mean I'm Luna. I'm Luna Lovegood."

He catches the slip-up immediately. While most others might dismiss it, he knows differently. It reminds him of the time in his primary school, when sometimes he would accidentally introduce himself as 'Freak' before using his correct name.

His fists ball up and his aura flares unconsciously. Realizing that the girl is withdrawing in fear, he quickly reinforces his occlumency shields.

"Luna," he forces a smile. "Tell me, do these. . . _nargles_ do this to you often?"

"Sometimes," she mumbles. "Most of the time, the Nargles simply hide my things. . . . books, shoes, clothes. . . things like that. Sometimes they trip me up on the staircase, but mostly they. . ."

He has heard enough. He quickly throws his winter cloak around the shivering girl, casts a small heating charm and then half-carries, half-drags her to the Hospital Wing.

He waits patiently until the matron checks the girl out and makes her write down all her observations on a piece of parchment. After Luna is safely off to the land of dreams, he marches away to the Ravenclaw Head's quarters.

It's time to get some explanations.

* * *

"You're _kidding_ me!?"

Flitwick sighs softly. "I assure you Harry, I am doing nothing of the sort. The Board of Governors have overturned the suspension of the students involved, claiming that it was too harsh for such a simple prank. They will be back in the castle by today evening."

"Too harsh? _Too harsh_!? They locked a little girl out of her dorms, practically naked, in the middle of freaking November! And that too after what happened on Halloween!? How is a month of suspension _too harsh_?" he demands.

"I am aware of what they did, child," the Charms Master says bracingly "But it is Miss Lovegood's words against the word of those eight girls, all of whom come from rather influential families. In circumstances like these. . ."

"What about Professor Dumbledore?"

"The Headmaster has tried of course, but his relationship with the Board of Governors is rather shaky now. There are rumors that Lucius Malfoy is attempting a coup of sorts. Should the headmaster push too hard we may succeed in seeing their punishment through, but in the long run it would cost him his job."

He runs his head through his hair in frustration. A part of him is grateful that the Charms Master is being so frank with him, but another part wants to start yelling in anger. Then something hits him. "What about you, Professor?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're a national-level duelling champion, one of the most accomplished Charms Master's in Europe; surely they'd listen if you spoke up in Luna's favor?"

Flitwick looks uncomfortable now. "Well, about that. . . I did in fact speak up in defense of Miss Lovegoo,d but seeing as all the parties involved were purebloods, and I am. . . well, a part-goblin. . ."

He is beyond livid at this point. Filius Flitwick in one of the nicest people he has ever known, and the one teacher in this school he genuinely respects. Not a day goes by when he wishes someone like him had taught at his old primary school, when he wonders how different his life would have turned out if he had a teacher who actually looked out for his pupils.

And how do those worthless witches and wizards treat him? They hold him in contempt because of his parentage, even though the man has more power and skill in his little finger than any of those fools!

He forces his voice to remain level. "So that's it? They're going to get away with this?"

Flitwick gives him a tired smile. "You really are more like Lily than I thought. She always took things like this seriously as well." He shakes his head. "Alas Harry, there is truly nothing further to be done. The most that I can do is to place monitoring charms around Miss Lovegood's trunk to ensure her possessions remain safe, and maybe some older prefects will agree to keep an eye on her. Beyond that. . ." he shrugs.

"It's not fair," he says quietly.

"Life rarely is, Harry. It is something that you must understand if you wish to live in this world: not all injustice can be fought against."

* * *

Injustice. One word that can sum up everything wrong with this world.

On the surface, everything looks perfect in Wizarding Britain. The magic is beautiful, wondrous, capable of bending the laws of physics and reshaping reality. . . a world of infinite possibilities and innumerable wonders.

But beneath it all lies a darkness. Fear, bigotry, hatred, corruption. . . . so many horrible things slowly spreading through their world like a cancer; contaminating the very nature of the people, corrupting their very souls.

Harry is not a naïve fool. He knows that injustice cannot always be fought, he knows that evil cannot always be stopped. . .

Bad things happen to good people. It's just the way the world works.

And yet. . .

And yet sometimes, you cannot simply look away. Sometimes you have to take a stand. Sometimes you have to think about more than just yourself. . .

Sometimes you must choose what is right, over what is easy.

"Alright, Potter. We're here. So get on with it, whatever you have to say."

He looks into the sneering face of the older girl. Marietta Edgecombe, third-year and de-facto leader of that little gang of bullies. Her mother is supposedly a Department Head in the Ministry, and a close friend of the Minister himself. It was mostly on _her_ word that the entire gang managed to get off scot-free after everything they did to poor Luna.

He recognizes the haughty expression her face. It was the same look Dudley always wore, that _all_ bullies wear: that smug expression, that overwhelming belief in their own superiority, that sense of entitlement, that feeling that the world owes them the respect they do not deserve.

It is enough to make him want to hex her face off.

And yet he hesitates, as all people do when they take their first steps on an unfamiliar path. For the first time since he has come to this school he is doing something that does not coincide with his goals. He plans to win a war with a Dark Lord. What could saving an unpopular little girl have anything to do with that?

 _Don't do it._ The rational part of his mind says. _Her mother is high up in the Ministry, she can be a potential ally. Huge ego, easy to manipulate. . . she would be a valuable pawn. It's not worth making an enemy out of her. Luna isn't worth it. . . ._

 _Not worth it. . ._

Those words awaken something primal within him, something long forgotten, something locked up deep within the walls of his mind.

Memories. Memories of a little boy locked in a cupboard, memories of a child eating fearfully out of garbage bins, memories of a cry for help from a world that did not care to listen, a world that believed he wasn't _worth it_. . .

He sees red.

With a swift movement his wand is out of his pocket, locking the door and casting several anti-eavesdropping charms. Before the girls can even react, he points his wand at them and a huge snake, the size of a king cobra, bursts forth.

He cannot help the feral smile on his face. "Say hello to my little friend!"

* * *

As a rule, he does not take much joy in the suffering of others.

But even _he_ has to admit, the sight of a hysterical Marietta Edgecombe running out of the Entrance Hall, dragging her trunk behind her is nothing short of _hilarious_.

The reactions across the Great Hall are varied. The students are gossiping excitedly; at the faculty table Flitwick gives him a small wink, Snape is looking at him calculatingly, Sprout is openly smirking, McGonagall is frowning slightly, Dumbledore is trying and failing to copy her, bright blue eyes twinkling with mirth. . .

They _know_ he is behind this. He knows that they know. He realizes, however, that he doesn't much care.

His eyes search for only one person along the Ravenclaw table. A lone first-year who is staring at him in shock.

He knows Luna's expression well. The moisture in her eyes, the slight parting of her lips, that feeling of wonder and surprise. . . it is similar to what he felt the day he received his mother's legacy. The day he realized that he wasn't completely alone, that he had someone who genuinely cared for his well-being, that someone believed _he_ was worth it. . .

His decision is made in a second. He gets up from his place at the Gryffindor table and moves to stand beside her, smiling slightly.

She doesn't say anything. No words are needed.

He gently holds onto one of her hands and leads her away. Ron and Neville take up their respective positions at their side, Hermione picks up Luna's bag and joins the rear. The five of them walk out in full view of the Great Hall.

He finds he doesn't care. Not anymore.

His path is suddenly clearer to him. He has finally understood what his mother tried to convey through her writings, the real reason he is fighting for.

He is not fighting for these purebloods or for their world, he is not fighting for the simple satisfaction of revenge. . . .

He fights for people like Ron, whose family is rewarded with poverty and hardship for their forward thinking; he fights for people like Hermione, whose skill means little in the face of her parentage; for Neville, who is regularly suffocated with the burden of unreasonable expectations; for Luna, who is persecuted for seeing the world differently than others. . .

He fights for the ones he calls friends, he fights for the ones he calls his own. . .

And if their society has a problem with that. . . well, that's just too bad.

After all, he thinks with a smirk, he's not some paragon for them to put on a pedestal and worship.

He was, is and will always be. . .

. . . a bloody renegade!

* * *

 **AN: One of the things that's always irked me about most Dark!Harry fanfics is the almost manically obsessed manner in which Harry goes about fighting his enemies. While it's a welcome relief from canon Harry (or Doormat!Harry as I like to call him), and some Dark!Harry stories are really very well written, it tends to get a bit ridiculous when you see a supposedly eleven-year-old brat act like a miniature Lord Voldemort.**

 **Seriously, how many of us have seen eleven-year-olds as cunning as they are in Slytherin!Harry fics? The level of manipulation often described is the kind of stuff you'd see at College (or High school, depending on where you live). Watching a bunch of twelve year olds play mind games with each other is more amusing than impressive.**

 **And the whole Sociopath!Harry cliche takes things even further, showing Harry as some remorseless, Hannibal Lecter style schemer who's somehow able to run rings around intelligent adults like Dumbledore, Snape and Amelia like they're absolute morons.**

 **Unfortunately, such perfect sociopaths exist only in the world of fiction. In real life, everyone is actually somewhere in between the scale of clinical sociopathy and hyper-empathy. Yes, that means all of us a real a bit sociopathic in our own way because there is no perfect method to diagnose personality disorders. Clinical sociopaths are very rare, especially high functioning ones, and more often than not can be found in asylum.**

 **This chapter brings out the core of Renegade!Harry's personality, namely that despite his past he is still a kid with good intentions. The Dursleys upbringing and Voldy's soul fragment have warped his understanding, but by nature he is still a person who strives to do the right thing. Is he a monster? To some extent yes, and he's aware of it. Is he overconfident? Yup. Does he want revenge on Voldemort? Damn right. But at the end of the day he's still a eleven year old kid who is continuously being molded by his experiences. There's really no need for him to throw away his childhood for the sake of his dreams, not when he can still accomplish them with help.**

 **In a way this is actually pretty consistent with Canon. In the first three books it's plain to see that Harry does possess a sharp intellect and leadership skills. In PS, he's the one to figure out how Voldemort tricked Hagrid. In COS, he solves the final clue with nothing but a scrap of paper and boldly leads the way to Ginny's rescue. In POA, he's the one to figure out Dumbledore's warning and shows great presence of mind during the whole time-travel thing.**

 **In short, the kid's talented, thinks quick on his feet, has real guts and shows initiative where most people would hesitate. Honest-to-goodness hero material. But somehow from GOF onwards he goes full retard. *sigh***

 **Next up: Harry and Dumbledore have a long overdue conversation, one which will go on to shape the future of the Wizarding world. What will it take to convince this renegade to take up the mantle of Wizarding Britain's protector?**

 **Stay tuned to find out :)**


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